Seawolf tsf-2

by David E. Meadows

  “Chief, let’s look at the history log on this blip,” ordered the captain, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  “Yes, sir. Calhoun, run the past three hours on the left screen.”

  On a side screen to the waterfall display, a rapid recap of the display for the previous two hours appeared. “Sorry, Chief, I only started recording it after I ran diagnostics. We only have about two hours of data.”

  “That’s okay, son,” said the skipper, putting his hand on Calhoun’s shoulder. “You’ve done an outstanding job, regardless of what this may turn out to be. Don’t you agree, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir, Captain. Calhoun is one of the best operators I’ve trained.” Damn. Calhoun was going to take this credit away from him.

  “Darken the display and let’s see what the blip shows.”

  On the increased background the sound anomaly ran down the screen until about 2130 hours, when it showed a slight turn to its present bearing.

  The chief pointed to it. “Look here, Captain. This shows the blip turning.” “Maybe we turned?” Calhoun asked.

  “Better not have turned without telling me,” the captain said curtly.

  “We were put on a course of three three zero at eighteen hundred hours with orders to maintain that course until fifty miles out.” He paused and then pensively added, “No, if we had changed course, the OTC would have been screaming at us.”

  He reached over and pressed the intercom button. “Bridge, this is the captain. Did we make any course changes or corrections between 2120 and 2140 hours?”

  “Wait one, sir,” the OOD responded. Several seconds later he replied.

  “Captain, we were on a course of three three zero, and I show no course corrections since twenty forty-five hours, and that was to correct for bearing drift.”

  “Okay, thanks. Bridge.”

  The captain cocked his head to one side, his bushy eyebrows nearly touching as he gave this problem his full attention. A minute later the captain looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after taps. Most of the crew would be drifting off to sleep now. He hated to do it. but the image of the USS Gearing loomed fresh in his mind.

  “Chief, I’m beginning to have a bad feeling about this. Rather look a little foolish than take the chance. Upgrade this to possible sub,” he commanded.

  He patted Calhoun on the shoulder once again. “Good work, sailor. Now, let’s see if you get the glory or I get egg on my face, but I’d be damned forever if we failed to do anything and it was a submarine.” The captain the intercom to the bridge. “Officer of the deck, sound General Quarters.”

  Chill raising bongs rushed through the night. The captain stepped through the hatch leading into Combat to the sound of sailors hurrying to their battle stations. Boondockers pounding on the metal ladders mixed with audible curses as tired sailors hastened to their assigned stations.

  The wind carried the GQ alarm to the sailors of the USS King, who were loitering topside on the fantail, enjoying their cigarettes in the night breeze. Several snide comments about nervous captains ran through the group. Then, their own General Quarters alarm sent cigarettes into the sea and them scrambling to their battle stations as, like dominoes falling, the battle group went to full alert.

  * * *

  “What is it?” asked Admiral Cameron as he stepped into Flag Combat aboard the Nassau. He tossed the napkin, still in his hand, onto a nearby desk. The GQ alarm drowned out his voice. The clanging footsteps of the Nassau sailors running to their stations echoed through Combat.

  “Sir, Hayler is prosecuting a possible submarine bearing two eight zero from her position,” Captain Clive Bowen replied. He tapped the chart in front of him. “That’ll be two two five from our position.”

  “What are they basing it on?”

  “Admiral, they have a blip, a noise event, that is originating from outside the battle group. According to the captain, they’ve had it for at least two hours, but have just upgraded it to a possible submarine.

  They are unable to equate it to normal undersea noise or marine biologies.”

  “When this clears, Chief of Staff, find out why it took two hours.

  That’s un sat If the Gearing hasn’t taught us to be wary, then I don’t know what will. What orders have we given the battle group?”

  Captain Bowen replied, “I’ve ordered everyone to battle stations as a precaution and we’re already in a darken-ship status. Sir, if I may, I recommend a ninety-degree formation turn to starboard for Nassau, Trenton, King, and Nashville with an increase to max speed for ten minutes to open the distance to the possible submarine. Then commence a northeasterly zigzag at twelve knots. We have Hayler prosecuting, and I have ordered Spruance to join her. Yorktown is moving into defensive position between the four high-value units and the contact.”

  “Good work, Clive. Go ahead and issue the orders to take the amphibs and the arsenal ship out of the contact area,” Admiral Cameron said. He looked around. “Where’s the goddamn intelligence officer when I need him?”

  “Right here, sir,” Commander Mulligan answered, stepping out of the shadows in Combat.

  “You’re CTF Sixty-one’s in tell officer, Commander. No offense, but where’s mine?”

  “Sir, Captain Lederman fell down the ladder on the oh-two level. He broke his arm. Happened about an hour ago. He’s sedated and in sick bay getting it set.”

  “Okay, then you’re it, Commander.”

  Clive pressed the intercom and passed the admiral’s orders to Commodore Ellison, who as the officer in tactical command was responsible for the maneuvering of the battle group. captain ibm al jam al stepped into the control room of the Al Nasser, careful to avoid bumping his head on the steel rim of the hatch. The vinegary smell of sweat seemed stronger than usual. The tea had been nice. Hot, steaming aroma with just the right amount of sugar. Some things in life must remain constant, if life was to be bearable. Birth and death were about the only two sure things in life. Most would add taxes, but too many avoided taxes for that to be a constant in his mind. Everything in between was determined by events, seldom by the person. But a good cup of tea was a constant. There was a small tea shop called Grosvenor’s off Oxford Street in London that made an excellent cup, and from there, you could watch the American sailors going in and out of their European headquarters.

  He looked at the navigational gauges over the shoulder of the helmsman.

  Twenty minutes spent updating his personal log in his stateroom with his thoughts and intentions had relaxed him somewhat. Still no word from Algiers. His last orders were to attack any ships within thirty nautical miles of the capital that posed a threat to the new nation. If he waited another hour, the Americans would be beyond that thirty-mile limit, but they’d return in the morning, and fighting a day battle against these incredible odds would severely diminish his survivability. No, the night was his. He brought Al Nasser up to periscope depth, where he easily found the arsenal ship. Ordering a spread of four torpedoes, he discussed softly the sequence of events he expected the Al Nasser to execute after firing the torpedoes. He wanted the officers and crew thinking about what they had to do, not waiting for him to tell them and then figuring how to do it.

  Satisfied they understood, he turned to the periscope. The targeting officer informed him that the battle group appeared to be dispersing, with some of the ships, including the arsenal ship, changing course away from them. The captain looked up. “Then let’s hurry,” he told them, keeping his voice calm and professional. He twisted the focus knob on the periscope. The view sharpened in the starlight.

  The arsenal ship’s stern was swinging across the bow of the Algerian Kilo attack submarine. Less than six thousand meters separated the submarine Al Nasser from the most heavily armed and explosive-laden ship in the battle group. He ordered the Kilo’s speed increased another four knots.

  The speed increase added another minute to refine a firing solution. He paused in thought. When he fired the torpedoes, t
he Americans would try to sink the Al Nasser. For a split second he nearly ordered the periscope down with the frightened intent of running. But professionalism overrode the fear. This was his job. War was the profession he trained for. He no longer envied the other Algerian Kilo submarine Al Solomon on patrol near the Strait of Gibraltar. This was for the glory of Allah, the greatness of Islam, and the future of revolutionary Algeria.

  He kept his eyes firmly against the periscope as he took several deep breaths to calm himself. Once he recovered, he turned, faced the crew, and ordered, “Down periscope. Fire torpedoes one. two, and three.”

  The Al Nasser shuddered as the compressed air blew the three torpedoes clear of the tubes. He waited twenty seconds and fired the fourth.

  The fourth torpedo was aimed ten degrees to the left, off target. If the target turned to port to evade the main pattern of three torpedoes, it would turn into the fourth torpedo’s path. Seventy-five seconds to impact. The tiny sonar in the nose of the torpedoes would home on the screws of the arsenal ship. If the passive side of the torpedoes lost the sound signature of its target, the tiny sonar would commence an active search, pinging until it acquired a target. Maybe he should have taken out the Nassau. It was the command ship. He shrugged his shoulders. Too late to change his mind. The torpedoes were in the water. The ballet of death in the next seventy-five seconds between the weapons and the target would determine the accuracy of his firing solution. He ordered the Al Nasser into a sharp turn away from the Americans. The wires, providing the initial guidance and connecting the torpedoes to the submarine, broke. But it didn’t matter. The torpedoes were already activated and on their own sensors.

  * * *

  “I have rapid screw turns in the water!” screamed Calhoun into the microphone in front of him. “Torpedoes, we got motherfucking torpedoes in the water!” he yelled. Tears sprang to his eyes as adrenaline rushed through his body. He tried to jump up, but the seat belt jerked him back hard. Over the loudspeaker in Combat the captain heard the warning.

  “Activate NIXIE!” shouted the captain at the ASWOC officer.

  Streaming from the stern of the Hayler was a NIXIE transducer that, when activated, sent sounds into the water to fool a torpedo’s sensors and pull it away from the ship toward the transducer.

  “Increase speed to flank three, left twenty-degree rudder,” ordered the captain, and he immediately felt the ship heeling to starboard, creating a gigantic knuckle of water in its wake to further distract the torpedo sensors. “Bring her back down to twelve knots!”

  “Chief, it’s not us! It’s not us!” screamed Calhoun, his breath short and rapid, holding on to the desk shelf as the ship rolled. “I have three torpedoes to our port side with a right bearing drift, decreasing noise.”

  “Do we have a bearing, range from source?” yelled the chief, licking his dry lips. Boyce reached up, jerked the spare set of headphones down, and plugged them into the SQR.

  “Bearing two eight two. Estimate range at six thousand yards,” Calhoun replied, his voice shaking. “I’ve got the mother, Chief. I’ve got the mother!” Calhoun shook his head back and forth. “Yeah, I’ve got the mother,” he muttered as he twisted the knobs on the SQR system refining the direction. The blip on the waterfall now had three distinct brothers separating from it.

  Boyce put his hand on Calhoun’s shoulders. “Stay calm,” he said. His legs felt weak, almost as if they were going to give way. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the warm electronics bay for a couple of seconds before straightening. His hand still rested on Calhoun’s shoulder.

  Boyce blinked a couple of limes to clear his eyes, and then pushed the intercom button. “Captain, target bears two eight two. Estimate range six thousand yards.” He surprised himself at the calmness in his voice, considering the butterflies in his stomach. He looked for a nearby trash can in case he threw up. The hell with what they might say.

  “ASWOC, I want a Sealance, now! Target bears two eight two, range six thousand yards!” yelled the captain.

  The Navy Tactical Data System operator plugged in the symbol for hostile submarine on the range and bearing echoed by the captain. The system immediately transmitted the symbol throughout the battle group, including the arsenal ship.

  “Torpedoes on course zero four six, correction zero four niner, been running for thirty seconds! Stand by mark. Five, four, three, two, one. Mark!”

  The NTDS operator in putted the torpedoes into the system. Within seconds everyone in the battle group saw the target of the torpedoes as the arsenal ship, USS King.

  ‘“Time to impact?” the captain asked.

  A yellow line shot out from the submarine on the holograph plot identifying the projected torpedo track. It ran directly to the stern of the arsenal ship.

  “Forty-knot torpedo speed. Time — sixty-three seconds to target.”

  The TAO grabbed the handset in front of him. He heard the familiar beep of the radio cryptographic system, synchronizing the security keys. “King, this is Hayler, be advised three torpedoes inbound toward you. Estimated time to impact fifty-eight seconds.”

  “Roger, Hayler, we’re aware and taking evasive and decoy actions!”

  “Good luck, King.”

  Familiar clicks of acknowledgment echoed from the speakers.

  The captain moved to the right of the holographic plot for a different view of the situation. In the three-by-six-foot hovering display the ships of the battle group, in their relative positions, sailed northeast with a slight wake trailing behind each friendly vessel. West of the battle group a holographic submarine traveled at a depth of fifty meters with its bow pointed at the USS King. The holograph operator touched several heat-sensitive buttons, and from the nose of the submarine two additional yellow lines appeared, showing the torpedoes and their projected paths.

  “What’s the status of the SH-60?”

  “Captain, airborne in thirty seconds, sir.”

  A speaker above the holograph plot came to life. “Hayler, this is Yorktown. Our ASW helicopter airborne in twenty seconds your way. Say when ready to assume control.”

  The ASWOC reported, “Sir, Sealance ready.”

  “Captain, ASW; we have a fourth torpedo in the water bearing two zero eight on projected course of zero zero seven.”

  On the holograph display a fourth torpedo appeared. This yellow line showed the torpedo passing harmlessly down the port side of the arsenal ship, unless the USS King turned into the torpedo’s path.

  “Hayler, this is Spruance. Ten minutes to position. You have the hall. Request instructions.”

  “Spruance, this is Hayler. Line-abreast attack formation. Request position yourself ten thousand yards to my starboard. I am in a twelve-knot turn toward contact bearing two eight two, estimated range six thousand yards.”

  “Roger, Hayler. We’re on our way.”

  The captain lifted the handset for Battle Group Common. “King, this is Hayler: be advised fourth torpedo inbound your direction. Do not turn to port. I repeat, do not turn to port. Ambush torpedo launched to port.”

  “Roger, understand. We have NIXIE streamed and activated. Captain is steadying on course and intends to knuckle the water when torpedoes are twenty seconds away. One moment, Hayler.” A few seconds later the voice continued. “Captain asks you to send coordinates. We are armed and ready to fire, but need targeting data! We’ve got the weapons, you give us the targeting!”

  “Roger,” the captain of the Hayler replied. Turning from the handset, he said, “ASWOC, have you got a firing solution yet?”

  “Sir, we have a proximity solution. Recommend we fire Sealance at four thousand yards along torpedo origination bearing, followed immediately with two others bracketing the area.”

  “Do it!”

  “Sealance away!”

  The ship shook slightly as the rocket-borne ASW weapon blasted out of the vertical-launch systems in the bow of the ship, immediately followed by two more, separated three seconds apart.
>
  Aboard the enemy submarine, unless they heard the muffled sounds of the launches, they wouldn’t know they were under attack until the airborne torpedoes hit the water and their rapid-turning props activated.

  “Momma, this is Devil Six, ready to launch!”

  “Captain, this is the bridge; coming right to course three three five for winds to launch the 60.”

  “Roger, after launch bring the Havler back onto intercept course.”

  “Captain, ASW; we have lost contact with the submarine. I repeat, sir, we have lost contact.”

  The SH-60 helicopter was the most deadly ASW weapon that a surface ship possessed. It could fight a submarine miles from the mother ship without endangering the surface platform. In this case, the surface ships were in the middle of the battle, fighting an enemy who had attacked them. They had a general location from where the torpedoes were fired, but as the captain of the Haylcr knew, the sea is a big shadow.

  The captain of the USS Hayler speculated the enemy submarine had fired its torpedoes and then gone deep, changed direction, and altered speed to complicate ASW computations and to put as much distance as possible from its firing position. ASW was nothing but speculation. It was like playing chess blindfolded with the crowd only hinting as to what your opponent’s moves were.

  “Captain,” said the lieutenant junior grade supervising the TMA plot.

  “We have a solution. Sir, the submarine is on a course of three three zero, speed twelve knots.”

  The captain knew the solution was wrong. The submarine had done something to cause them to lose it. Most likely, it had changed either speed or depth.

  On the holograph plot in front of the officers, the virtual submarine shifted its nominal position to the TMA solution 2500 yards further north. Course and speed were added to the enemy symbol. On the NTDS console the same information was in putted and transmitted simultaneously to the fleet.

  “Combat, ASW; still no contact with enemy submarine.”