by Bond , Larry
ABOARD USS O’BRIEN
“Torpedo inbound! Bearing zero four three.”
The sonar operator’s report galvanized the Bridge and Combat Information Center into immediate action. Levi’s first order called for flank speed, and the gas-turbine-powered warship responded like a sports car, slicing through the sea as its speed climbed over thirty knots.
O’Brien’s CIC crew cursed silently as they tried to keep track of their own ship’s evasive maneuvers while still keeping tabs on the Soviet sub’s last reported position.
Levi stood braced against the tilting deck as his ship turned, hoping he’d made the right decision. Instead of turning away from the oncoming torpedo, he’d ordered a turn toward the enemy. The idea was not to be where the launching unit had predicted and to get away from the torpedo’s seeker.
“Bridge, this is Sonar. No change in torpedo bearing. The signal may be splitting into two or more weapons.”
Well, that didn’t work, Levi thought. He ordered another rapid course change. Screw closing on the sub. Coming right, he steadied perpendicular to the torpedoes’ approach. Maybe giving them a rapidly changing angle would throw them off.
The sonar room reported again. “We now have three weapons in the water. Bearing rate on one is changing. It may be going for Duncan. Rate is still steady on the other two.”
Levi clenched his fists. There was nothing more he could do. “Pass the word, all hands brace for impact.” He looked out to starboard and saw another ship heeling sharply. The Duncan was also maneuvering.
IN THE YELLOW SEA
Soviet SET-65 torpedoes use passive sonar to home in on the sounds made by a ship’s engines and propellers. As the two torpedoes fired by Dribinov at O’Brien closed on their target, their robot brains brought them in behind the American destroyer—with one a hundred yards back.
Both tiny onboard computers evaluated the closest noise source as the rapidly turning screws of an American Spruance-class destroyer. Both were wrong.
They were homing on a Nixie, a torpedo decoy towed behind most U.S. Navy warships. No bigger than a garbage can, the Nixie was designed to make noise on the same frequencies as the ship towing it, but so loud that any attacking torpedoes would be spoofed into attacking the decoy instead.
It worked.
The Dribinov’s first torpedo closed on the Nixie and detonated when its proximity fuze sensed the target’s position changing rapidly.
The explosion of its six-hundred-pound warhead threw a hundred-foot-tall geyser of icy water into the air, drenching sailors watching from the O’Brien’s fantail. At the same moment the shock wave rippling out from the explosion lifted the destroyer’s fantail almost clear of the water, and for a moment the O’Brien’s propellers raced as they neared the air.
The second torpedo, intent on the same target, raced through the roiled water left by the explosion and suddenly found itself without a noise source to home in on. The SET-65’s forward-looking seeker didn’t have the intelligence to realize that its original target was now to its left and behind. And the control logic preprogrammed into the torpedo’s tiny brain was simple, direct, and mistaken: If a target is lost, circle right and look for another.
Meanwhile, O’Brien’s captain had not been idle. As soon as the first weapon exploded, destroying his Nixie, he’d ordered a hard left turn. Not only was he now closing on the Soviet sub’s estimated position, but he and the second torpedo were heading in opposite directions with a combined speed of eighty knots—over ninety miles per hour.
It took roughly thirty seconds for the Russian torpedo to circle completely around to face O’Brien’s stern. By that time the destroyer had covered thirteen hundred yards, over half a nautical mile. The torpedo’s small size meant a small, short-range seeker, with a maximum range of a thousand yards. So it never heard the O’Brien again and simply continued its turn. Left behind by its prey, the torpedo circled mindlessly for about five more minutes, then ran out of gas and sank quietly to the bottom.
ABOARD USS O’BRIEN
Levi’s heartbeat was starting to slow toward normal when he heard a tremendous, rolling explosion from the right and felt the O’Brien rock for an instant. His head snapped right in time to see another towering column of water like the one that had appeared behind his ship. This one, though, wasn’t made up of only white, foaming water. It was stained a dirty black and gray and located directly under the Duncan’s stern.
The column sagged and then collapsed back into the sea, leaving the frigate hidden for half a minute under a dense cloud of mist and smoke. When it emerged, the Duncan was visibly listing to port and down by the stern.
Levi stood rigid with anger. The Russians had struck again. He wheeled to his bridge crew and snapped out a new string of orders. “Indicate turns for twenty knots. Right full rudder. Boatswain, call away the repair and assistance party.”
ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV
The first explosion’s rumbling Crrrummmpp came through the hull exactly when the tracking party predicted Dribinov’s first torpedo would reach its target. There were excited, quickly muffled exclamations from the Control Room crew, followed shortly by disappointed mutters when the time for their second torpedo to attack came and went. But the second explosion was right on schedule, and again the control room crew had to stifle its cheers.
Markov hid his excitement well. Three American ships sunk or damaged in a single quick series of attacks. It was easy to be calm when things were going as he had planned. Now to exploit the situation by escaping through the gap he’d just blown clear through the American ASW screen. “We will steer toward the two targets. Steady on course two six five.”
The sub changed course slowly at low speed. Normally he would have increased speed to hasten its turn, but the Dribinov’s battery was now too low to risk the unnecessary drain.
Markov smiled. He’d only sunk one of his priority targets—probably an amphibious ship—but once past the screen, he could clear the area and snorkel, recharging his batteries. He still had plenty of weapons, and with a full charge he could make another attack.
He moved back to the plot table and started to estimate the maneuvers he would need to make. Assuming about six hours to motor clear at three knots, while the task force continued to the north…
ABOARD BRAVO SIX
The SH-3H Sea King hovered low, its rotor wash churning the sea into a bubbling cauldron. A cable hung from under the helicopter, stretching down into the water.
In the Sea King’s cockpit, the pilot clicked his mike. “All right, Tommy. Activate the pinger. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
The petty officer in charge of Bravo Six’s sonar gear reached out and flipped a single switch—activating the dipping sonar dangling thirty meters under the water.
ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV
“Comrade Captain! Active sonar on the port bow. Very strong.” The plotter’s voice climbed in pitch.
“Damn it! Release a decoy! Right full rudder.” Markov looked at the charge meter and tried to make a fast calculation. How much battery power could he spare? Not much. He sighed and issued the order. “Increase speed to ten knots.”
WHANNNG! A sharp explosion rocked the sub’s hull from side to side. Markov felt the shock and automatically adjusted for it, flexing his knees. The lights flickered and fragments of the compartment’s insulation drifted down onto the plot table.
It was a depth-charge attack, close by. No warnings this time. “All compartments report damage.”
He was just starting to receive reports when the second salvo came in, with a third seconds behind. This time the Control Room lights went out and did not come on again. In the darkness he could hear men shouting orders and he spoke to those nearby, calming them.
His first lieutenant’s voice cut through the confusion. “Maneuvering room reports one of the shafts refuses to turn. Also, there is flooding in the crew’s quarters.”
Shit. Markov couldn’t see the plot in this b
lackness, but his head held the known elements of the situation Dribinov faced. “Right full rudder. Release another decoy. Put all power into the remaining screw. Turn off all but emergency equipment.” He coughed in the dust-choked air. “And get the damned emergency lights rigged in here.”
ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION
“We got good hits on those attacks, sir. It’s hard for him to dodge in this shallow water.” The ASW officer was cool even at the climax of the prosecution. His earlier case of nerves hadn’t prevented him from vectoring in several helicopters to attack the Soviet sub in rapid succession, and Brown was making a mental note about a medal.
“What’s he doing now?” Brown wasn’t confident that depth charges alone could kill the sub. It was almost impossible to get a direct hit with them. So instead of the simple deadly impact of a torpedo warhead, the Tango out there was being hammered by a series of shock waves from near misses. Or so they hoped. It was difficult to get good damage assessment amid all the roiled water left by the depth-charge explosions.
The ASW officer listened on his radio circuit and made some minor adjustments to his display. “Bravo Three and Five both have good contact with the Sov boat. He’s turning right, moving at about ten knots.” The officer paused. “That’s kind of slow for a Tango trying to evade attack, Admiral. We may have hurt him pretty bad.”
“All right, hit him again. Don’t give that asshole an inch.” Confident that the attack on the sub was in good hands, Brown turned his attention to the gravely damaged Duncan. He wasn’t going to lose another ship. Not if he could help it, at any rate.
ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV
The battery meter was unreadable in the dim red light thrown by the emergency lamps, but Markov knew what it must show. With less than ten percent of his charge and one shaft gone, there were few options left. He hoped to merge with the sounds made by the damaged American ship and then break away to the west. Dribinov’s flooding was contained in the crew’s quarters, and if the engineers could find some way to repair the shaft…
WHANNNG! WHANNGGG! Two more explosions, both to port. Markov felt the shock, and again the hull rocked to starboard and then back to port. More ominously, the boat’s trim was off. She was down by the bow. Dribinov was angling downward toward the muddy bottom of the Yellow Sea.
“Sir, the torpedo room doesn’t answer!
Markov closed his eyes. That last depth-charge attack must have ruptured the pressure hull right over the torpedo room. He closed his eyes, trying to shut away images of the men now drowning amid their weapons. “Blow the forward ballast tank. We have to compensate for the flooding.”
The hissing release of supercompressed air brought the Dribinov’s bow up, but only halfway.
WHANNG! Another explosion. Not as violent, but still jarring. Markov knew it was over. The Americans had plenty of depth charges, and he was out of everything—time, power, and most importantly, luck.
He stumbled forward to where his first lieutenant stood braced against the deck’s tilt. “Blow all ballast tanks, Dimitri. We will surface.” He raised his voice, addressing every man in the Control Room. “Prepare to implement the destruction bill. We won’t give the Americans any prizes.”
Koloskov grabbed Markov’s arm, the fear evident on his face. “Captain! Remember our orders from Moscow. We must not allow the Americans to learn of our involvement. We must escape.”
Markov shoved the man away, unworried about any reports he might file. The odds were against either of them surviving long enough for Koloskov to retaliate.
“Listen to that, you idiot!” He jerked a thumb toward the hull. The deep thrum made by an approaching destroyer’s screws was clearly audible above them. “The only way we’ll escape capture is to let them kill us. Is that what you want? Do you want to suffocate inside an iron coffin on the bottom of the sea?”
Koloskov stared at his captain, struck speechless with fear. Then he turned away and retched, fouling the Dribinov’s littered deck.
Markov ignored him and wheeled to the rest of the Control Room crew. “You heard my order. Surface!”
ABOARD USS O’BRIEN
“Sir, after lookout reports a submarine surfacing!” Keegan’s bellow rang across the bridge. Levi had just ordered the whaleboat launched and had been thinking about what should go in the second load for the Duncan. Now those thoughts vanished.
He ran across to the O’Brien’s port side and grimaced as he saw the Soviet submarine’s battered sail and hull lurch up out of the water. The son of a bitch was surrendering.
Another destroyer was already racing toward the enemy boat at flank speed, its guns trained on the crippled vessel. The onrushing destroyer’s five-inch barked, throwing a shell across the Tango’s bows to let it know that the slightest misstep would end in its destruction.
Men started to appear on the submarine’s sail and inflatable boats were thrown on the water. Levi suddenly realized what had happened and started grinning. With survivors and photographs, the Russians were going to have some explaining to do.
ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION
Admiral Brown was speaking into the scrambler phone again. “No, George, they scuttled as soon as their people were off. Explosive charges. We’ve marked the spot, but we’ll have to wait awhile to try to raise it. It’s the middle of winter and the middle of a war zone.”
The gravelly voice of Admiral George Simons, CINCPAC, rasped in his ear. “I understand, Tom. Now what about your own losses? Can still you carry out the mission?”
Brown didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely, sir. Duncan is out of action, but I’m having her towed home by another frigate. We lost a lot of people aboard the San Bernadino, but that’s just made my crews eager to take some scalps of their own.”
Simons sounded relieved. “That’s good news, Tom. I’ll relay your report to the Joint Chiefs for their consideration. In the meantime, I’m authorizing you to take whatever measures you deem necessary to safeguard your command—up to, but not including, nuclear release. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir.”
“All right then, Admiral. I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir.” Brown listened as the transmission from PacFleet HQ in Hawaii ended in a series of clicks and a low hum.
He hung up the phone and called to his chief of staff. “Jim. Effective immediately, extend surface and air surveillance out to three hundred miles.
Turning to the Constellation’s air group commander, he asked, “CAG, do you still have Tomcats bird-dogging the Russian AWACS plane?”
The CAG looked puzzled. “Of course, Admiral.”
“Shoot him out of the sky.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The CAG picked up a phone and started issuing orders to the fighters now lazily orbiting with the Russian radar plane.
He paused, listening to the murmurs sweeping through the Flag Plot. “Admiral Simons has put the Pacific Fleet on war alert. Let me be very clear about this, gentlemen. One more incident like this last one, and we’ll begin unrestricted offensive operations against the Red Navy and Air Force. We’ll start hitting the Soviets where they live.”
The Second Korean War had just escalated.
______________
CHAPTER
41
Thunderbolt
JANUARY 15—OFF THE SOVIET NORTH PACIFIC COAST
The port of Petropavlovsk sat on the eastern coast of the Kamchatka Peninsula. Over thirty-six hundred miles from Moscow, it was so remote that all communication with the area was by air or sea. The region was unpopulated and barren and was located in the same arctic latitude as the Aleutian Islands. On the Siberian coast, good harbors were hard to find.
Petropavlovsk was also the Soviet Pacific Fleet’s main submarine base. Almost all of its ballistic missile submarines, many of its nuclear attack submarines, their support vessels, and numerous other naval units were based there.
One of the few Soviet ports that opened directly onto a major oce
an, it allowed ships to sortie without having to go through a landlocked passage or hostile strait. And that gave the Soviets a good reason for putting up with the remote location, high cost, and terrible weather.
ABOARD USS DRUM—OFF PETROPAVLOVSK
Captain Donald Manriquez tried to remember how important the base was as he fought the weather to maneuver his Sturgeon-class nuclear submarine, USS Drum, into a new surveillance position. His orders were explicit and simple. He and Drum were to monitor traffic in and out of this major Soviet naval base. If it exceeded normal levels, he was to notify Commander Submarines Pacific, COMSUBPAC, immediately.
So far, they had been loitering off Petropavlovsk for almost a week, and they’d met with a fair amount of success. In this case, success was a combination of not being seen, being in the right spot to count passing traffic, and hopefully, not seeing the massive surge of Soviet ships and subs that might signal World War Three.
“In position, Captain.” His executive officer, “Boomer” Adams, was navigating while they looked for a spot where the currents would not be quite so unpredictable.
“Very well, slow to three knots.” By maintaining just enough speed to control its course, the Drum minimized its noise signature, and that reduced the chance of its being detected.
The storm overhead was both a help and a hindrance. Its ten-foot waves and twenty-knot winds generated noise—noise that would interfere with any Soviet passive sonars listening for the submarine. Looking for the Drum that way would be sort of like trying to hear a cat burglar in a boiler factory.
The problem was that Drum’s own passive sonars were also degraded. Luckily most of the Russian stuff was noisier than they were. Even so, the bad acoustical conditions meant that Manriquez and his crew had to get in close to hear anything. They were outside the twelve-mile limit, but just barely.