The senior lieutenant somberly shook his head.
“That is most doubtful, Comrade. I think it’s best to merely accept this tragic news and continue on with our job at hand.”
“But it can’t be! The Cheka was our most advanced attack sub. Her crew was hand-picked from the Rodina’s finest sailors. No vessel on this planet was — is — its equal.”
“What can I say? We must accept the facts at hand. Comrade,” Leonov said softly.
“You mustn’t forget that strange things happen in times of war.
Anyway, I’ve always said that we have seriously underrated the capabilities of the Americans’ Los Angeles-class attack ship.”
As the reality of their loss began to sink in, Novikov responded, noticeably humbled.
“If what you say is true, this is a black moment for the Motherland.
Since we have lost our escort, perhaps we should ascend to launch depth and release our missiles now, before the enemy has a chance to catch up with us.”
But the senior lieutenant wanted no part in such a half-baked scheme.
“That makes absolutely no sense at all. The only way that our operation can succeed is to eliminate each of the intended targets, totally.
In order to be within range of those sites on America’s eastern shore, we must attain our preplanned launch coordinates.
“Don’t look so worried. Comrade. We are only thirty minutes away from this position. And as for that American attack sub, I think we are more than capable of handling it ourselves.”
Turning from the concerned political officer, Leonov issued a solitary command.
“Comrade Zinyakin, release the external buoyant thermometer and find me the location of a thermocline.”
Then, turning back to the sulking zampolit, Leonov said, “Your lack of confidence disturbs me, Comrade Novikov. Don’t you think I’m capable of handling our present situation?”
“With the Cheka gone, I doubt if even Admiral Sorokin could escape the grasp of the Americans,” Novikov replied, his voice heavy with defeat.
“Oh, come now, you continue to disappoint me.
This is far from the confident spirit that you showed me in Petropavlovsk. Don’t forget, it wasn’t so long ago that I was the one who was ready to give up. I’ll never forget that it was you who saved me.”
The unexpected comment snapped Novikov out of his foul mood.
“You are right, Vasili Leonov. I am acting like a foolish crybaby.
Please accept my sincere apologies.”
From behind them, Zinyakin called, “I’ve found a thermocline, sir.
There seems to be a pronounced band of significantly warmer waters stretching some forty-three meters from the ocean’s surface. From that point down it cools abruptly.”
“Wonderful news, my friend,” the senior lieutenant said as he did some hasty mental calculations.
Puzzled, Novikov asked, “But what does a band of warmer water have to do with escaping the reach of the enemy?” Leonov winked and said, “Everything, Comrade.
By bringing the Vulkan up into this layer, the Los Angeles-class sub will be unable to use its sonar to detect us. Because the warmer water is more dense, their sensors will be reflected back into the cold layer, and they will be unable to locate us. In effect, we will be invisible!”
Inspired by the simple logic of this tactic, the zampolit managed a smile of his own.
“That’s more like it. Comrade Novikov! Now-how about going up there and winning ourselves a war!
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Robert Powell of the destroyer USS Eagle knew how rare it was to receive a personal call from the commander of the entire Third Fleet. Of course, he was currently on the strangest mission he had ever been involved with in his twenty-five-year naval career, so the call really wasn’t that unexpected.
Admiral Miller had been most firm. With time rapidly running out, he had pleaded, begged, then finally demanded that the captain tag the bogey Soviet sub within the next thirty minutes. Aware of the tragic proportions of the crisis they faced, Powell had assured the admiral that he would do all that he could.
The captain coordinated his efforts from the Eagle’s combat information center. This equipment packed compartment was buzzing with intense activity as he made the rounds of its various stations.
Satisfied that the ship’s sonar and other underwater sensors were working properly, he joined his XO beside the clear plastic plotting board. On it was a detailed representation of the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain.
“What’s the matter. Skipper? You look a bit peaked,” said the exec.
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
Powell responded flatly, “Mr. Morley, what ails me isn’t of a physical origin. I just got off the horn with Admiral Miller. Things don’t look good, my friend.”
The XO circled the waters to the immediate east of the subterranean mountain range.
“If they’re out here. Skipper, I don’t understand how we could have missed them. Between our own efforts and that of the task force, we’ve got this sector completely saturated.
I’ve got a feeling that the Vulkan is in an altogether different portion of the Pacific.”
With both hands on the edge of the plotting table, the captain studied the map intently.
“We’re going by what the boys in intelligence tell us, lieutenant. With our present time limitations, we’ve just got to pray that their info is correct. There’s certainly no time left to start a new search. What’s the status of our choppers?”
The XO pointed to the northern portion of the map.
“Bravo team is one hour into its present patrol.
They’re in the process of’re saturating this sector with sonobuoys.
We’ve also got them working their MAD system, dunking hydrophones, and turbulence-wake detector.”
“What about Delta team?”
“They came in about fifteen minutes ago. Captain.
Not only did they need fuel and oil, but the crew is totally exhausted.
After all, they’ve already completed two full sorties.”
“Well, make it three. Lieutenant,” the captain replied caustically.
“Everyone of us is beat; but as long as that equipment remains operational, we’ve got to keep it in use. Have them take the southern sector.
Of all the remaining areas, that one has been covered the least.” “Aye, aye, Skipper,” the exec said, then he went to make the call that would scramble the weary chopper crew.
Captain Powell continued to study the plotting board. Taking in the positions of the Eagle and the other ships in the task force, he wondered if his exec’s observation could be correct. Between the Eagle, the cruiser Ticonderoga, the frigate Gatewater and the John F. Kennedy, these waters were certainly well covered. The Kennedy alone held over eighty planes and helicopters, many of which were specifically designed for anti-submarine operations. And then, of course, there was the USS Triton. Commanded by his old schoolmate Michael Cooksey, the Los Angeles-class attack sub was a potent ASW platform. Unsure of their current location, Powell still felt that the Triton had the best chance of ridding the seas of the Soviet threat with a single shot.
Balancing himself on the sides of the table as the Eagle’s bow bit into a large swell, Powell closed his eyes and offered a single prayer. A little divine help-and a lot of luck — sure would be appreciated.
Two floors beneath the Eagle’s CIC, Air Tactical Officer Gerald Grodsky was seated in the destroyer’s galley, wolfing down a hearty breakfast. Though he was bleary-eyed and looking forward to a nice long sleep, he had decided on appeasing his appetite before surrendering to the solace of his bunk.
Deserted except for a handful of fellow sailors, the brightly colored galley was Grodsky’s second home.
Never one to miss a meal, the ATO’s full figure was flourishing on the navy’s simple yet tasty chow. His present feast was comprised of half a grapefruit, a bowl of o
atmeal, a cheese omelette, bacon, sausage, and a trio of thick brown biscuits for good measure.
And a mug of steaming hot, black coffee to wash it all down.
Seated opposite him was the Seasprite’s diver. Satisfied with only oatmeal and a cup of decaffeinated tea, Wally Simpson shook his head as he watched his shipmate devour the full tray of food.
“I don’t know where you put it, Grodsky. If I ate like that, I’d never be able to fit into my wet suit.”
“It’s all in the genes,” the ATO said between bites of sausage.
“Some of us Just burn food more quickly than others. My pop was just like me. That guy would put away his three squares a day and never leave out a midnight snack, and you know, he fit into the same pair of pants for twenty years straight.”
“That’s not the way it is in my family,” Simpson replied.
“My folks always seem to be on a diet. It’s fine with me — I’ll most likely live a lot longer without all that sugar and fat anyway.”
“Yeah, but it sure as hell tastes good,” Grodsky said as he delicately buttered a biscuit. As he took a bite of the bottom half, he looked down and saw his tray shift hard to the right. It stayed on the table because of a protruding steel edge, mounted for that very reason.
“Looks like we’re running into some weather,” the diver observed.
“Wouldn’t you know that we’d hit some rough stuff just when we’re getting ready for some sack time.”
Grodsky scooted his tray back in front of him.
“Not even a full-scale typhoon could keep me from wink land now, good buddy.”
He burped with satisfaction, then began working on the other half of the biscuit as the destroyer again plunged through a large swell. This time the ATO’s hand alertly shot out to make certain his tray remained steady. He was just about to polish off his eggs, when he noticed a familiar face dashing into the mess hall.
Lieutenant Bill Payton was their pilot. Since he was a loner by habit, his presence there could only mean trouble. Without stopping at the chow line, he scurried over to their table.
“Let’s move it, gentlemen! The Captain wants us up for one more go at it.”
Grodsky looked up in disbelief.
“Jesus, Lieutenant, if this is your idea of a joke, I seriously worry about your sense of humor.”
“I wish it were a joke, gentlemen, but I’m sorry to let you down. Look, I’m as beat as any of you, but right now there’s nothing we can do but get the lead out of our pants. The old man is going to personally meet us outside the hangar, so let’s move it!”
With this revelation, Wally Simpson pushed away his tray and quickly stood. Payton eyed Grodsky impatiently, but only after the ATO had stuffed the remaining two biscuits into his shirt pocket did he join them.
Struggling to keep their balance, the chopper crew climbed the two flights of stairs that brought them to the tossing deck. Keeping a hand firmly gripped on the guard rail, they made it to the stern launch pad.
Awaiting them was their Kaman Seasprite helicopter and the gangly figure of Captain Robert Powell.
“Sorry to ask this of you, men, but I have no alternative. It’s imperative that we put to use every anti-sub device that we have. It’s the next thirty minutes that will be the most critical. That’s why I’m counting on you to get this SH-2 up and working.”
The Eagle’s captain took in the chopper crew’s disheveled, weary-eyed appearance and explained further.
“I know that this will make your third sortie of the day, but if that Delta isn’t tagged soon, all hell is going to break loose. That Russian survivor you pulled from the Pacific has checked out thoroughly, so you can understand why I’m asking this of you. Find that submarine, men, or God help the planet!”
Stimulated by the sincere force of Powell’s words, the three-man chopper crew saluted and pivoted to get down to work. After the pilot had some hasty words with the burly, cigar-chomping maintenance chief, they loaded into the Seasprite and switched on its dual turboshaft engines. With a high-pitched whine, the rotor blades began spinning.
As they revved up to take-off velocity, the AID peered out of the plexiglass hatch window and viewed the captain, who still stood stiffly beside the hangar, taking the full brunt of their rotors’ downdraft.
Having had little personal contact with the captain before this, Grodsky was impressed with the officer’s forceful character. The ATO held on as the Seasprite lifted, Powell’s somber warning still fresh in his mind. The ship was soon out of sight, replaced by nothing but the surging blue Pacific.
Their course was due south and Grodsky began preparing the various ASW devices that they would soon be deploying. But the ATO’s thoughts remained locked on the nature of their current predicament.
When Junior Lieutenant Andrei Yakalov was first pulled from the downed Soviet relay plane, Grodsky had failed to realize the seriousness of their situation.
He justified the young sensor operator’s mad babblings as being the aftereffects of a trauma-inducing crash.
Though their superiors had yet to brief them fully, scuttlebutt had it that Yakalov’s warning tied in directly with the sub they were presently tracking down. This same rumor hinted that a mutiny had taken place on that vessel. Why the United States Navy had been called in to quell what appeared to be an exclusive Soviet problem was still somewhat confusing.
Grodsky knew that the Soviet people were difficult for Westerners to understand. Although he was the grandson of Russian emigres, he had few insights into the Soviet psyche. What he did understand was their love of the land. This was something his grandfather had expounded upon until his death. Paranoid after centuries of constant invasions, the Russian people wanted only to enjoy their fields and forests in peace.
As it turned out, the first part of the twentieth century offered them little of that most-precious commodity.
With tens of millions slain on battlefields, it was no wonder that they were still so cautious and distrustful.
Grodsky had watched the rapid ascension of Viktor Rodin and had looked to the future with optimism.
With their own candidate of peace in the White House, the time seemed ripe for an end to nuclear madness. That was yet another reason why the current crisis was so completely unexpected.
Stifling a weary yawn, the ATO hoped it would all be resolved with a minimum of bloodshed. After he was certain that his gear was in place, he approached the cockpit.
“When do you want me to get started. Lieutenant?”
From the seat on the left. Bill Payton replied, “We’ll be in a position to take our first hydrophone reading in a couple of minutes.
Everything ready back there?”
Nodding in confirmation, Grodsky looked out at the Pacific. He had no doubts that their task was a formidable one. More difficult than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, locating a single submarine beneath those depths seemed utterly impossible.
Awed by the challenge, Grodsky ducked back into the Seasprite’s central compartment and sat down in front of the sensor panel.
Barely a minute later, his helmet-mounted intercom speakers activated and he received the okay to begin lowering the hydrophone unit. While the chopper hovered some twenty-five feet over the surging swells, the sensitive transducer slowly descended on a sturdy steel cable.
Grodsky replaced his helmet with a set of bulky headphones. Turning the volume gain to its maximum intensity, he took in the sizzling, crackling sounds that were produced as the device plunged under the water’s surface. It took only seconds more for him to pick up the alien whining sound produced by a submarine’s propeller.
His first instinct was that there had to be some sort of glitch in the equipment. Next, he briefly wondered if he could be imagining the whole thing. Only when the steady whine persisted did he convey this amazing discovery to the cockpit.
“Bingo, Lieutenant! We’re sitting right on top of something! I’ll bet my next dozen leaves that the sucker
is a submarine — and a big one, at that.”
The pilot, normally a cool character, answered excitedly “Good work, Grodsky! Are you set up back there to relay this sound signature back to Momma Bird for a definite I.D.?”
“I’m ready when you are,” the breathless ATO returned.
Payton switched on the secure radio line back to the Eagle.
“Mother Bird, this is chick Delta, do you read me?”
A brief crackle of static was followed by a crystal clear reply.
“Go ahead Delta, this is Mother Bird.”
“Roger, Mother Bird. Prepare the nest to copy the sounds of your feeding chicks—” From the Seasprite’s sensor panel, the ATO diverted the hydrophone signal so that it would be transferred back to the destroyer via radio wave. In this manner they could take instantaneous advantage of the Eagle’s massive computer. Their ability to identify the source of the hydrophone signal in a matter of minutes was as important as their ability to find it in the first place.
Though there was always the outside chance that they had tagged one of their own subs, Grodsky felt otherwise. He knew that Bill Payton was thinking the same thing when the pilot sent Wally Simpson back to give him a hand with the arming of their Mk 46 homing torpedoes. The ATO surrendered to the task willingly as they anxiously waited for the analysis to be completed.
Lev Zinyakin couldn’t believe how slowly the minutes were passing. It always seemed that way when he was waiting for his shift to change.
Though the two consecutive duty segments that he was about to complete had been far from dull, he couldn’t ignore the emptiness in his belly and the heaviness of his eyes.
For the last quarter of an hour, the Vulkan had been traveling at a rather shallow depth to take advantage of the warm waters of the thermocline. In this portion of the sea, Zinyakin had to focus the sub’s sensors on a radically different threat source. Since it was unlikely that they could be spotted from below, what they had to fear most was contact from above.
And the American sonar devices were extremely sophisticated.
Carried by both fixed wing planes and helicopters those systems had to be respected.
Counterforce Page 28