First Strike c-19

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First Strike c-19 Page 19

by Keith Douglass


  “One hundred feet.” For the first time, the chief’s voice showed the tiniest shiver of emotion. Forsythe wasn’t sure anyone else would have noticed.

  Their own sonar showed the bulk of the transport ahead, a massive steel cliff in the water.

  It was not the first prayer that Forsythe had murmured since they left port, but it was certainly the most heartfelt. Most of the crew was staring at the overhead, as thought they could see the giant ship overhead and somehow duck if they came too close.

  And then they were under her, the pressure wave surrounding the submarine hitting the ship’s beam and keel and the pressure forcing her down slightly. The water depth at this point was 140 feet, and there was no guarantee that the debris on the bottom wouldn’t decrease that.

  It was as though they could feel the ship overhead. The water around them was saturated with the sounds of machinery, stamping feet, almost with the sound of voices. They were so close that someone standing on the conning tower could have reached up to touch the barnacle-encrusted hull above them.

  “Emergency back full,” Forsythe ordered, and saw that hands were already poised over controls. “Emergency blow.” The sharp hiss of compressed air being pumped into ballast tanks filled the submarine.

  Even as small as she was compared to the ship, Seawolf could still not stop on a dime. It took time to slow her down, more time than it took to come shallow. But how long — had he miscalculated? Could she surface and turn in time to—?

  The Seawolf slammed sideways, throwing everyone not strapped in against the port bulkhead. Loose gear went flying. A massive groan that seem to encompass their whole world filled the submarine, far more overwhelming and powerful than any sonar they had heard so far. It went on and on, angry, screaming, the sound of metal tearing and fuel exploding. It crescendoed, increasing to the point where there was nothing left in the world except the sound of the massive transport dying.

  The force was sufficient to rotate the Seawolf around her long axis, and to shove her through the water with her conning tower parallel to the bottom of the sea. Her speed decreased quickly, and by small increments, she righted herself. In the forward part of the compartment, the planesman and helmsman struggled for control of the ship, powerless against the massive forces acting on her.

  Just when it seemed neither steel nor flesh could endure it any longer, Seawolf slammed to a stop. A cacophony of sound filled her, less agonized than the tearing of steel.

  “Chief, surface the ship,” Forsythe ordered, still on his side along the port bulkhead but struggling to his feet. For some reason, his right leg wasn’t working the way it should. He felt numbness extend from his waist down to his feet, worried for a second, then dismissed it. It was preferable to the pain that would certainly follow.

  “Surface the ship, aye.” A thin trickle of blood ran out of the corner of the chief’s mouth. “Planeman, surface the ship.”

  A groan arose from the planesman’s position. The sailor was leaning sideways in his straps, struggling to sit up straight and reach for the planes controls, but clearly disoriented and confused. Forsythe crawled across the deck to him, used the man’s chair to pull himself into a standing position, and leaned over him, bearing all his weight on his left leg. He grabbed the controls and yanked back, putting Seawolf into a climb.

  “Depth?” Forsythe asked, studying the indicators.

  “Ninety feet, sir,” the chief answered. “But I’m not certain that—”

  Suddenly, they both felt it, the change in the weight and inertia of a submarine that is no longer completely submerged. Forsythe restored the controls to neutral position and made his way to the center of the compartment to the periscope. It still operated, although with a noisy squeal as it extruded from its housing. He spun it around and looked back the way that they had come.

  At first, he could see nothing. He thought the periscope was broken, a cracked lens or something. Then he realized that what he was seeing was fire. Fire, water, and steam obscuring the picture, making it difficult to make out any details.

  “We did it,” he said, then all at once felt every bit of adrenaline vanish from his system. He hung on to the periscope to keep himself upright. “We did it.” The torpedoes that had been following them had hit the three Russian transports. Even if they’d been trying to follow the Seawolf’s maneuvers, the torpedoes couldn’t have maneuvered to avoid them.

  Forsythe leaned against the bulkhead. The blackness was back, eating at the edges of his consciousness, inviting him, enticing him, and he fought against it. There was still too much to do, too much to…

  Forsythe crumpled and slipped to the deck. The chief watched, and turned to the planesman who was now completely conscious.

  “Benson, take us down. Real slow. We are a feather drifting down through the water. I want to sit us on the bottom and stay at quiet ship. Then, we’ll wait here until the captain comes around and tells us what to do.” The chief glanced around the control room and saw heads nodding in agreement. The ship settled gently to the bottom of the sea. They waited.

  THIRTEEN

  MiG 101

  Sunday, September 12

  1132 local (GMT-4)

  The threat warning receiver in the cockpit screamed, indicating that he’d been targeted by fire control radar. Tombstone’s pulse pounded, and he could hear Greene swearing quietly in the back seat.

  Had his uncle gotten the message to the Jefferson? Did it get lost somehow aboard ship before the right parties got it? And did somebody remember to tell the cruiser? Hell of a thing to get shot down by friendly fire.

  “Home Plate, this is unidentified air contact bearing one eight zero, range twenty miles from you. Be advised that this is a friendly contact — no IFF, but you should have verification on board of our identity.”

  “Roger, unidentified contact, we hold you at that position. Say again your identity and interrogative your intentions?” The operation specialist’s voice was suspicious, but was replaced almost immediately by a different voice.

  “Unidentified contact, this is Home Plate CO,” indicating that the commanding officer was speaking. “Be advised that we are in receipt of the traffic you mentioned. What assistance do you require?”

  “A green deck,” Tombstone said promptly. “And a tanker. Get Rabies up if you can — I need a good one.”

  There was a long silence, and Tombstone could only imagine the incredulous conversations taking place on board the carrier. Finally, the captain’s voice returned. “Unidentified contact, are you aware that this is an American aircraft carrier?”

  “Do you think I could put this down on a cruiser?” Tombstone snapped. “Of course I know it’s a carrier. Now get me some gas in the air or you’re going to need a helo to get me on board. And believe me, if I have to punch out of this bitch due to lack of fuel, I’m going to be one royally pissed off aviator.”

  Another long silence, then, “Roger, we have Texaco aircraft in your area at this time. And, as luck would have it, Commander “Rabies” Grill is the pilot in command. And, unidentified contact…? Is there something we ought to call you, something besides unidentified contact?”

  “Sure. Call me Stoney One,” Tombstone said promptly. “Composition one, two souls on board, state one point six, and I’m really getting thirsty up here.”

  “Roger, sir,” the operation specialist said, evidently having decided that, unidentified or not, this was something he did know how to do. “Suggest you come left, sir. Texaco is fifteen miles from your location, and he’ll be waiting for you. Oh, and sir, no disrespect, but Commander Grills… well… he asked me to ask you…” the controller’s voice trailed off.

  “What?” Tombstone demanded.

  “If you know how to do this, sir. Tank, he means. And if you know him personally.”

  “Yeah, I can manage it. And tell Rabies that since he’s so concerned about it, I’ll let him sing his latest song during the approach.”

  The controller kept the m
ike open to allow Tombstone to hear him chuckle. “I guess you do know him, sir.”

  “All too well.”

  “Button three for coordination.”

  “I don’t have a button three. How about a frequency?”

  “Roger, wait one…” The controller then reeled off the frequency associated with that preset channel on an American aircraft. Then he continued with, “Sir, just out of curiosity — just exactly what is it you’re flying? The deck wants to know for the tension line settings.”

  “A MiG-37,” Tombstone replied. “And if you’ve never seen one close-up, I’ll be glad to give you a personal tour once we’re on deck.”

  “Roger, copy a MiG-37,” the controller said, his voice as calm as though this were an everyday occurrence. “I will advise Texaco.”

  “Hell, don’t mind me,” a familiar voice broke in on the circuit. “Just get your ass on up here before I change my mind about committing unnatural acts. Tanking is bad enough, but doing it for a MiG really sucks.”

  Outside of landing at night on the deck of a carrier, few evolutions are as dangerous as tanking. Tombstone had done it so many times in so many American aircraft he thought he could probably do it in his sleep, but he knew the dangers of complacency. And, even though the evolution was familiar, the MiG was still a new aircraft to him. He had less than thirty hours in her, and while he’d grown to appreciate the aircraft’s nimble handling and performance characteristics, tanking with an unfamiliar cockpit configuration would test his skills to the limits.

  He already had radar contact on the KS-3 tanker, and a vector from the controller took him right in behind the aircraft. The tanker was trailing the familiar basket and Tombstone settled in low and slightly behind the KS-3.

  “Is this who I think it is?” Rabies asked over their private control circuit.

  “Probably,” Tombstone answered. “No names, okay?”

  “Yeah, right, I got it. What the hell are you doing flying that bitch?”

  “Long story, and now is not the time.” Tombstone glanced down at his fuel indicator. “Let’s get this done and we’ll catch up when we’re back on board.”

  “Roger. Take it slow. I’ll keep her steady for you.”

  One of the advantages of the S-3 airframe as a tanker was it was an exceptionally aerodynamic platform. All the S-3’s series liked to fly and did it easily. They had exceptionally long endurance, and their stable, aerodynamic characteristics made them an excellent choice for tankers.

  Tombstone finessed the control surfaces, allowing the MiG to gain altitude almost inch by inch. She was more than glad to accommodate him, and seemed to understand exactly what he was trying to do. When he attained the correct altitude, with his refueling probe lined up on the basket, he tapped the throttles forward ever so slightly.

  The MiG bolted forward. Tombstone swore, and pulled back, dropping well behind S-3.

  “Easy, big boy,” Rabies warned, and Tombstone could hear the tension in the pilot’s voice. “You got all the time you need to do this right — but no time to do it wrong.”

  “Roger, she’s a little too loose on the throttle,” Tombstone acknowledged.

  “Try doing it with control surfaces instead,” Rabies suggested. “I saw them doing it at an air show once.”

  Still at the correct altitude, Tombstone adjusted the control surfaces and then compensated with the throttle. The MiG slowed noticeably and he tapped the throttles so that he was keeping the correct distance from the tanker. Then he eased off the speed brakes ever so slightly, allowing her to drift forward. The distance between the two aircraft closed slowly.

  “That refueling probe — you sure it’ll fit?” Rabies asked.

  “I think so. It’s supposed to.”

  “All right, let’s do this.”

  Attitude, attitude. Watch your line up. Keep your eyes on the basket. That’s right, slow and easy. You can do this.

  But it didn’t feel right. The probe was closer to the cockpit than it was on the Tomcat, and was set slightly farther back. He would be perilously close underneath the KS-3.

  “They must use a longer tanker probe, and trail the basket back farther,” Tombstone said.

  Tombstone slid the MiG forward, almost holding his breath. It looked like he was going in smoothly, but then he heard a thump and a shiver ran through the MiG.

  “Off center,” Rabies said. “Slide back a bit and try it again. And, remember, that refueling probe is off to the right a bit, not midline.

  Tombstone pulled back slightly, readjusted his speed, and tried again.

  Come on, baby. You can do it. Now!

  The refueling probe slid into the basket smoothly and locked into place. A green light appeared on Tombstone’s control panel. “We got a lock.”

  “Roger, concur lock. How much you want?”

  “Four thousand pounds.”

  “That much?” Rabies said, doubt in his voice. “I thought you were heading in for landing.”

  “Yeah. But if you think refueling for the first time was tricky, imagine the trap. I want to be a little heavier, have plenty of time for a couple of go rounds.”

  “Roger, you got it.” Another green light on the panel lit up, indicating fuel was flowing. “You sure you know how much she holds?”

  “That is one of the things I do know,” Tombstone answered.

  The MiG proved to be an exceptional refueling platform once he figured out how to plug into the basket, and the aircraft gulped down the fuel quickly. Within a few minutes, Tombstone was able to reduce speed and drift away from the tanker.

  “Thanks,” Tombstone said. “I’ll see you on the boat.”

  “Roger. If you have any problems with a trap, I can give you some pointers.” Rabies voice was smug. He was known as a hotshot who rarely missed a perfect three wire trap.

  “I think I can manage.” Tombstone chuckled.

  “Some kind of fun,” Greene said from the back. Except for a few quiet comments during Tombstone’s lineup, he had been silent during the entire evolution.

  “Yeah. You can try it next time.”

  “Wonderful.” Again Tombstone detected a note of surliness in the younger pilot’s voice.

  “Now, let’s see if we can get back on board.” Tombstone switched away from the coordination frequency back to the tower frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Request permission to come on board.”

  “Roger, green deck, and you have priority in the stack. We’ve recalculated your weight to account for the fuel you took on and we’re ready for you.”

  “Roger, I’d like to make two passes over the deck before I actually try it. And put the Hornet LSO back there, would you?”

  “Roger, you got it.”

  Tombstone descended and slowly turned, getting a feel for the handling of the aircraft now that she was fully fueled again. He came in behind the carrier at five miles, lined up on her and proceeded to the two-mile point, intersecting what his glide path would be for a Tomcat, then commenced his descent.

  “Stoney One, call the ball,” the controller said.

  “Roger, call the ball,” Tombstone acknowledged. Moments later, he saw the Fresnel lens. “Stoney One, ball.”

  “Stoney One, LSO. First for both of us, sir. Looking good at this time, on path, on altitude. Say needles?” the calm, professional voice of the LSO requested.

  “No needles,” Tombstone said. “We’ll do this by visual.”

  “Roger, copy no needles. Disregard needles, well, fly visual, Stoney One.” The LSO reflexively fell into the standard patter he used with an approaching aircraft.

  “Disregard needles, aye,” Tombstone answered.

  For a few moments, he simply let the aircraft fly, his hands light on the controls as he made his approach. The MiG was so much lighter than the Tomcat he was used to and he was sure that would shortly play a major factor.

  Astern of the aircraft carrier is a mass of roiling, disturbed air, and every aircraft approaching for a la
nding runs smack into it. This area, known as the bubble, makes it difficult to hold on glide path, particularly in an unfamiliar aircraft. For his first approach, Tombstone would approach intentionally high, avoiding ramp strike.

  “Stoney One, you’re above glide path, on course,” the LSO said. “I understand you’re doing a fly by?”

  “Touch and go,” Tombstone said, feeling confident with the way the MiG was handling. He would touch wheels to the deck well forward of the arresting wires, continue maintaining full power, and take off again immediately over the bow. “Two touch and goes, and then we’ll do it for real.”

  “What are your tires rated for?” the LSO asked.

  Tires. Another spec we didn’t cover. But there’s only so much you can absorb in two days. I think they’ll take it, but I don’t remember. Maybe I should just try it. Tombstone groaned. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “But, to be on the safe side, cancel the touch and goes — we’ll do a fly by instead.”

  So, no actual contact with the deck prior to the trap, he thought. “You ready for this?” he asked Greene.

  “Yep. We’re in command eject, and I got my hand on the bar. We run into trouble, I’ll have us out of here.”

  That worried Tombstone a bit. Would Greene panic and punch them out unnecessarily?

  “It’s going to feel different,” he said. “A lot harder landing than it would be in a Tomcat.”

  “Don’t worry — I know what to do.”

  And now the boat was coming up at them quickly, a massive steel tower, its deck cluttered with aircraft and people. He saw sailors lining up outside the green line, staring up in wonder at the sight of a MiG flying over their deck. Vulture’s Row, the observation area on the weather decks at the 0–10 level, was also crowded. A few people waved as he went by.

 

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