SSN

by Tom Clancy

  Captain Mackey sat upright in his chair after the operations officer sat down. “Thanks, ops. Any questions?”

  There weren’t any, so Mack allowed the meeting to break up. “Okay,” he said. “You all know what to do. We’re under way at 0600. We’ll station the maneuvering watch at 0500. Dismissed.”

  The executive officer crossed over to the coffeepot, poured two cups, and slowly added sugar to both. “So how do you intend to play this, Captain?”

  Mack leaned forward, interlocking his fingers beneath his chin. “I’m not sure on this one,” he said. “It’s a different ballgame going after a convoy. There’s no one primary target to focus on, planning how to attack it and avoid getting caught. Instead, we’re going to have to make an attack, break off to reload as necessary, and then get back into position to re-attack. And keep on doing it until all the ships in the convoy are sunk or turn around.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a deck gun like the old boats.” The executive officer sipped his coffee as he set the other cup in front of Mack. “But at least we’ve got range with both weapons and sensors against these guys. And we’re faster, so getting back into position should be fairly easy. It shouldn’t be any problem as long as we don’t get too cocky.” He looked down at the captain’s untouched coffee. “But you’re still not comfortable with it. What’s wrong?”

  “The escort squadron commander is what’s wrong,” Mack said.

  The executive officer looked up at his captain. “Why does he bother you?”

  Mack paused as the messenger of the watch entered the wardroom and, standing at attention in front of his captain, reported professionally, “Captain, the officer of the deck sends his respects and reports the hour of 2000.” He then handed the 2000 report sheet to the captain. When Mack had acknowledged the report, the messenger of the watch left the wardroom as quietly as he had entered.

  When the messenger had departed, leaving the two of them alone once again, Mack straightened, took a long drink of coffee, and carefully set the cup back down. Getting to his feet, he moved toward the wardroom door and then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Because their commander is reportedly a previous submarine commanding officer, one of their best,” he said. “Why would a submariner be in command of a surface escort group and baby-sitting the convoy?”

  As the captain left the wardroom, the executive officer began to worry, too, and to wonder what would happen when Cheyenne located the convoy.

  * * *

  “Diving officer, make your depth 247 feet,” Mack ordered. Cheyenne had met up with the Chinese merchant convoy and had maneuvered into position. “Fire control, have you got a firing solution on the lead escort?”

  “Yes, sir,” the executive officer replied. “We’ve got firing solutions on almost all of them, but the best solutions are the lead escort and the front two troop transport ships, Masters 54, 55, and 56, respectively. Should I select a fourth target for torpedo tube four?”

  “Negative,” answered Mack. “I want to keep tube number four standing by for a snap shot in case another submarine shows up like before, or one of those escorts gets too close and damned lucky.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Has anything changed with regards to their defensive posture?”

  “No, sir. The escort ships, except for one, are still in a ring around the convoy at an estimated distance of eight to ten thousand yards. All escorts that have an active sonar system are pinging away for all they’re worth, but we’re still beyond their detection range.”

  Mack thought to himself that the Chinese submariner, the escort squadron commander, was wisely shielding himself on board his Jianghu class frigate by steaming in the middle of the convoy.

  “Very well,” Mack said. He took a deep breath and slowly turned to survey the entire control room. Everyone was at their battle stations and primed for action. A sense of tense anticipation hung in the air. Not a nervous anticipation, but the kind that came from the pit of the stomach, awakened every nerve, and expanded the senses. The hunter had found his prey and it was time to kill.

  “Torpedo room, fire control. Make tubes one, two, and three ready in all respects, including opening the outer doors.”

  The standard repeat back came over the sound-powered phones crisp and clear. Captain Mackey himself acknowledged and then crossed to the chart tracking the convoy’s route while he waited for the crew in the torpedo room to carry out their duties.

  Before long the executive officer reported, “Tubes one, two, and three are ready in all respects, Captain. Outer doors are open.”

  “Very well.” Mack went back to the BSY-1 fire-control and weapons-control consoles in “Fire-Control Alley.” “Firing point procedures, tube one, Master 54.”

  The combat systems officer reported the target’s current course, speed, and range from the weapons-control console.

  Captain Mackey acknowledged the information and then announced over the open microphone. “Sonar, conn. Stand by.”

  “Conn, sonar. Standing by.”

  “Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube one, Master 54.”

  “Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube one, Master 54, aye, sir.”

  As lights lit up on his console, the combat systems officer reported, “Captain, tube one fired electrically.”

  Moments later the sonar supervisor said, “Conn, sonar, unit from tube one is running hot, straight and normal.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye.” Turning to the fire control party, Mack said, “I don’t want to shoot tubes two and three until after the other escorts, especially the Luhu class destroyer with the ASW helicopters, have settled down a bit. They’re bound to chase their tails for a few minutes after their lead escort goes down.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the fire-control coordinator answered for his operators. In a softer voice, speaking off line so that only Mack would hear, he asked, “Excuse me, Captain, but why not take the other shots at the two merchants now before they get wind that we’re here, or even go after more of the escorts?”

  Mack smiled. That was a good question, and he answered it out loud so that everyone could hear him. “This first torpedo is for effect,” he said. “I want them scared. Our orders are to prevent them from reaching the Spratlys. I’d rather force them to turn tail and run than have to kill every sailor and soldier on those ships. But until they do turn and run, I intend to focus our weapons on the primary targets — the convoy ships. It’s a poor showing for an escort to arrive with minimal damage and no ships left to be escorted. Now, time to acquisition?”

  “Thirteen minutes, twelve seconds, sir,” reported the combat systems officer.

  When the torpedo closed on its target, it would turn on its active sonar and, after locating the target, would then shift to attack speed. At that range, the lead escort ship would have very little chance to react, and no time at all to escape. The only chance the ship would have was if it detected the initially silent inbound torpedo with its own active sonar pounding through the water.

  If that lead escort ship made a rapid course maneuver or a sudden increase in speed, Cheyenne would know that the torpedo had been detected. But when the Mk 48 acquired its target, both the convoy and the escorts were still maintaining their course and speed.

  “Conn, sonar. We have a detonation on the bearing to Master 54. All escort ships are increasing speed, continuing to ping with active sonar.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye. Fire control and sonar, keep a steady track on Masters 55 and 56. I want to shoot as soon as things settle out. Shut the outer door on tube one and reload with an Mk 48.”

  Several minutes ticked by slowly while the crew of Cheyenne waited for the response of the ships overhead.

  “Conn, sonar. Escorts have settled back into their stations. Master 54 had several secondary explosions and it sounds like it’s going down.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye. Sonar, any indications of assistance or rescue efforts provided to Master 54?”

  “Conn, sonar, tha
t’s negative, Captain. They all just steamed right passed it without slowing.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye.” That bothered Mack. The Luda hadn’t exploded or sunk suddenly, so there was no reason why one of the convoy ships shouldn’t have at least slowed to pick up survivors. Something was wrong, but Mack wasn’t sure what.

  “Captain, we still have solutions for Masters 55 and 56 being passed to tubes two and three.”

  Mack looked over at the executive officer. “Very well, fire control. Firing point procedures, tube two, Master 55, and tube three, Master 56.”

  Once again the deadly drill was carried out and two more torpedoes sped from Cheyenne toward their targets.

  “Conn, sonar. Units from tubes two and three running hot, straight, and normal.”

  “Time to acquisition will be sixteen minutes, forty seconds,” reported the combat systems officer.

  Again Cheyenne’s officers and crew waited. The torpedoes knifed through the water, but this time toward ships that were dependent upon others for protection — a protection those others could not provide.

  “Conn, sonar. One of the escort vessels closest to us, the other Luda, Master 57, has started to increase speed and is executing a rapid turn!”

  “Sonar, conn, aye. Which way is Master 57 turning?”

  “Conn, sonar. It’s turning right toward us, Captain. Back along the torpedoes’ paths.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye. Have the torpedoes acquired yet?”

  “Conn, sonar, yes, sir, both torpedoes have gone active.”

  “Cut the wires, shut the outer doors, and reload tubes two and three.” Mack looked over toward his executive officer. “We’re going to get out of here. I want to clear this area and be back in a shooting position within the hour.”

  “Conn, sonar. Both torpedoes have detonated. Masters 55 and 56 have stopped their screws.”

  Mack doubted either ship had been killed. He didn’t think that a single Mk 48 each would sink the troop transport ships, but he knew that they must have been crippled.

  Mack quickly gave the orders to take Cheyenne out of the area, accelerating and diving away from the closing surface ship. Still beyond the detection range of the Chinese sonar, Cheyenne increased speed to twenty knots and began a thirty-minute high-speed dash that took her out and away from the convoy and then back along a leading intercept course to wait for the convoy to catch up.

  As before, the convoy slowly approached Cheyenne while on board the submarine tubes one, two, and three were made ready to shoot once again. Designated as Masters 58, 59, and 60, three ships of the convoy — the two remaining troop transports and the merchant tanker — had been selected as the next targets.

  Once again the firing procedures were executed by the numbers against Masters 58 and 59. The torpedoes from tubes one and two ran as expected and soon Cheyenne detected two more explosions under the last two troop transports.

  The combat systems officer reported to Mack, “We’re ready on Master 60, Captain.”

  Master 60 was the merchant tanker, no longer shielded by the troop transports. Mack knew that tanker would be sorely missed by the Chinese.

  Mack glanced at the executive officer. “Very well, fire control. Firing point procedures, tube three, Master 60.” Mack also knew that, with its single hull construction, the tanker would soon be spilling the diesel fuel, lubricating oil, and aviation fuel that the Chinese on the Spratlys really needed.

  “Course of Master 60 is 195, speed ten, range fifteen thousand yards.”

  “Sonar, conn. Stand by.”

  “Conn, sonar. Standing by.”

  “Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube three, Master 60.”

  “Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube three, Master 60, aye, sir.”

  “Tube three fired electrically.”

  “Conn, sonar. Unit from tube three running hot, straight, and normal.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye. Time to acquisition?”

  “Time to acquisition is—” The combat systems officer’s report was suddenly cut off.

  “Conn, sonar! We have torpedoes in the water off our port bow, SET-53s, bearing 205 and 207!”

  Captain Mackey glanced quickly at the executive officer and then turned back to Cheyenne’s control station. “Make your depth five hundred feet, increase speed to flank, do not cavitate. Release countermeasures.” Mack then turned to look back at the executive officer. “Fire control, I need a solution on whoever that bushwacker is, and I need it fast. Cut the wire on tube three, shut the outer door, and reload tube three.”

  “Conn, sonar. I think we got it, sir. Must be a diesel boat since it was so quiet. But it’s trying to reload and making a racket, bearing 200.”

  “Sonar, conn, aye. Snapshot, tube four, bearing 200, Master 61.”

  The Mk 48 from tube four was quickly on its way toward the bearing to Master 61. Mack would worry about the classification of Master 61 later.

  “Conn, sonar. Both enemy torpedoes have increased speed”—the sonar supervisor paused—“but they are on intercept course for our decoys,” he added. “They fell for it.”

  But Mack wanted one more piece of news before he was sure that the danger had passed. “Sonar, conn. What course are those torpedoes on?”

  “Conn, sonar. Course is 020. They are headed out and away, sir. No indication of re-attack.”

  The immediate threat of the torpedoes had passed, but Cheyenne wasn’t out of danger yet. The submarine that shot them was still out there.

  But not for long. The Mk 48 from tube four acquired the enemy submarine, and minutes later sonar reported an explosion from the bearing of the fleeing diesel. Master 61, which had given itself away as a noisy Romeo as it increased speed, was no longer a threat.

  But Mack didn’t relax. Cheyenne still had a job to do. “Sonar, conn,” he said. “What’s the surface picture look like?”

  “Conn, sonar. The remaining ships of the convoy are still on same course, same speed. Master 60, the tanker, is no longer with the convoy; it’s fallen astern of the convoy. Sounds like it’s dead in the water, Captain.” The BSY-1 operators confirmed the sonar supervisor’s call.

  “Sonar, conn, aye. What about the escorts?”

  “Conn, sonar, the escorts are still on station, but I… ” The sonar supervisor’s voice trailed off.

  That was unusual. “Conn, sonar, go on,” Mack said. “What is it?”

  “Conn, sonar. I could swear that I heard another torpedo and some other explosions in the direction of the convoy. Almost like they were attacking another submarine.”

  Mack paused. There were no friendlies in the area, so what could they have been attacking? “Sonar, conn. Did it sound like they got anything?”

  “Conn, sonar, no, sir. But I was kinda preoccupied, Captain.”

  Mack smiled to himself. “Sonar, conn, aye. We’re going back after the convoy. Get a clear picture, sonar.”

  “Conn, sonar, aye.”

  “Captain. What about the cripples?” the combat systems officer asked. “Are we just going to leave them?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do. Our job is to stop a convoy, not rack up a tonnage score. And your job,” Mack added, “is to get me firing solutions on three more convoy ships.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the combat systems officer said.

  * * *

  That diesel submarine bothered Mack. The question that kept coming back to him was how did that diesel know Cheyenne was there? A diesel boat couldn’t keep up with the convoy while submerged, and the odds of Cheyenne running into a diesel like that by coincidence right in the middle of the convoy route were simply astronomical.

  The executive officer was thinking about the same thing. Suddenly he smacked a fist into his palm. “It makes sense, Captain,” he said. “That’s why no one stopped for survivors; why the convoy never changed course when we attacked. They’ve got to maintain course and speed. The damned Chinese have diesel boats sliding into place just in time to protect the conv
oy. They just sit and wait while we run up and beg to get hit.”

  Mack’s eyes narrowed as he thought about what the executive officer had said. “You’re right,” he said. “And that would explain why they have an ex-submarine commanding officer running the convoy. He’s the one who cooked up those little surprises.”

  Mack grinned, and it wasn’t a friendly grin. The Chinese commander wasn’t the only submariner with a trick or two up his sleeve. He looked up at the clock. “We should be coming up on the next intercept point,” he said. “We’ll start creeping in a little earlier this time.” Mack then ordered Cheyenne to slow to five knots and eased her above the layer.

  After giving the orders for getting Cheyenne into position to make another assault on the convoy, Captain Mackey returned to the fire-control party. “We may very well run into another diesel boat hiding out here. So let’s stay alert and keep in mind that there could be multiple threats.”

  No one on board liked the thought of encountering another threat that identified its presence only when it fired a weapon. That was how a Los Angeles class submarine like Cheyenne operated, and they had seen for themselves too many times already just how effective that could be.

  But there was no time to dwell on profound realizations. There were targets to pick and a convoy to stop.

  The three merchant container ships closest to Cheyenne’s position became the next targets, designated Masters 62, 63, and 64. “Let’s update the TMA solutions and get it done quickly,” Mack said.

  Cheyenne glided quietly into her chosen ambush site. Sonar reported no contacts other than the closing convoy. But the convoy escorts had changed their tactics somewhat. Every one of the escorts was maneuvering erratically though still attempting to stay somewhat on station. Waves of active sonar pulsed through the ocean from the escorts as though the sheer mass of energy used could create a protective wall around the convoy. The remaining five convoy ships maintained a steady course, unable to do anything other than watch and wait and hope that someone else would be the next torpedo’s victim.