Red Phoenix

by Bond , Larry

  Manriquez could feel the sweat building on his forehead as they crept close to the Soviet coastline.

  It was clear from the most recent condensed news broadcasts sent by the Pacific Fleet that things weren’t going well in Korea. And that was bad news for Drum. Her “gatekeeper” role was clear, and he was sure that sooner or later the U.S. and Russia were going to go at it hammer and tongs. Well, when they did, he would sound the warning, then get first crack at the units pouring out. The American sub captain was a realist. If a general war broke out, his chances of survival weren’t too good, but at least he’d do some damage.

  SOVIET FAR EASTERN HEADQUARTERS, KHABAROVSK, R.S.F.S.R.

  Commander in Chief Anatoli Sergiev heard the alert bell ring and looked at the clock. Just after fourteen hundred hours. No test was scheduled.

  The intercom in his office came to life. “Comrade Commander, this is Major Grozny in communications. The submarine Konstantin Dribinov reports that it has been attacked by the American Navy in the Yellow Sea. They are abandoning ship.”

  “Have the heads of all departments meet me in the command center!” Sergiev was already grabbing his hat and on his way out the door.

  The situation map held no obvious surprises. Dribinov’s last reported position was well west of any American units. What were the imperialists up to?

  His staff came running in from behind him and from other entrances. Sergiev spotted Admiral Yakubovich, his naval liaison, and motioned him over as Grozny ran up with several copies of the message. After the boyish-looking major handed one to General Sergiev, the rest were snatched from his hands.

  Sergiev read the entire message, but it contained nothing more than the hasty summary Grozny had already given him over the phone. Specifically, there was no information on why Dribinov had been attacked. The most logical explanation was a case of mistaken identity, that the Americans had thought it was a North Korean boat. But Dribinov, like all over Soviet naval forces in the Pacific, had been ordered to keep well clear of the Americans. And that meant the U.S. Navy had gone to a lot of effort to deliberately hunt it down. Just what the hell was going on?

  “Does anybody have any suggestions on possible motives for this attack?” He looked at his staff, but the muttered negatives showed their puzzlement matched his own.

  Sergiev frowned. “I see. Well, then, I want answers and I want them fast. Contact Military Intelligence, the North Koreans, anybody who might shed some light on this. We need more information before we can act.

  “Grozny.” He looked over at the short officer. “Have there been any other transmissions from Dribinov?”

  “No, sir, and they haven’t answered…”

  The alert bell rang again. The speaker in the command center announced, “The Il-76 radar plane over the Yellow Sea has reported that aircraft are closing on it at high speed.”

  There was a pause. “We have lost communication with the aircraft and its escorts.”

  “That’s it! The Americans have lost their fucking minds! They’re deliberately attacking us,” Sergiev declared. He looked at General Yasov, his operations officer. “General, order all Far East forces to full alert, then notify Moscow. Order the ballistic missile submarines to sea, and I want all air defense forces on a wartime footing.”

  Yasov looked uncertain. “Comrade Commander, can we take such strong action? Shouldn’t we get more information before we react?”

  Sergiev opened his mouth to shout at him, but he wanted to keep the atmosphere calm. He took a deep breath and looked at Yasov. “Nikolai, we cannot afford to wait. One attack might be a mistake. Two cannot, and this may only be the beginning. All the measures we are taking are defensive in nature. And I will always choose to err on the side of caution.”

  Raising his voice slightly, he said, “Now let’s get busy. We have much to do, and we may be at war in minutes.”

  ABOARD USS DRUM

  “Captain, sonar reports active pinging, bearing two nine zero.”

  Manriquez looked at the chart, but he already knew that bearing was toward the harbor mouth. The tracking party started a plot, ready to add this new contact to the list of others they had recorded.

  There was an open line from the control room to the sonar room. Lieutenant Ed Baum headed up the tracking party. “Sonar, do you have a classification yet?”

  A tinny voice answered him, “Contact is a surface ship, probably a newer unit. Pinging is low frequency, now bears two nine three.”

  In such lousy acoustic conditions, their chance of hearing the actual vessel was slim. Instead, they would have to use clues such as the type of sonar pinging to help narrow down the possibilities. The bearing had also changed slightly. By measuring the rate of change, the tracking party could make educated guesses about the contact’s course, speed, and position. Of course, they needed a lot more than just two bearings.

  Another minute or two passed. “Contact’s bearing now two nine five. New contact, designate first contact Alfa, second as Bravo. Second contact also pinging, probably a surface ship. Bearing is two eight seven.”

  Manriquez sat up a little straighter. So far on their patrol, they hadn’t seen a pair of destroyers coming out in team like this. Maybe a large ship was going to sortie? The tracking party got a little busier, labeling and plotting two possible tracks instead of one.

  “Contact Alfa now bears two nine six, Bravo two eight eight…” There was a pause and then, in a rush, “New contacts Charlie and Delta bearing two nine one and two nine two. New contact Echo, bearing two eight five.… Captain to Sonar, please.”

  When Manriquez came into the small space, the chief sonarman was looking over the operator’s shoulder. The captain took one look and whistled softly in surprise. Normally an active sonar appeared on a scope as a line radiating from the center to the edge, brightening and then fading as each ping was received. But Drum’s scope didn’t show that kind of normality at all. Instead, a wedge ten degrees across was filled with pulsating brightness, and the audio signal sounded like a chorus of monstrous bullfrogs.

  Sonar Chief Kelsey straightened and turned to face Manriquez. “Skipper, I count at least ten pingers out there, with more appearing all the time. We’re receiving low- and medium-frequency signals, and it’s impossible in that mess out there to tell what classes or even if they’re only surface ships.”

  The captain didn’t wait. Turning to the “squawk box” on the bulkhead, he called the control room. “Control, this is the captain. Sound general quarters. I’ll stay here.”

  The klaxon filled the cramped spaces with sound, and Manriquez squeezed into a corner as the rest of the sonar gang arrived and made the compartment even smaller. There was a quiet bustle, punctuated with exclamations, as the new arrivals saw the sonar display and were briefed on their current situation.

  Manriquez looked at the chief. “Concentrate on the low-frequency pingers. They’re the biggest threats.”

  He looked at the scope, trying to pull information out of the lines and patterns. Big exercise? Nothing had been announced. Some sort of snap drill, then? He desperately wanted to find some other explanation than a general Red Fleet deployment.

  There were other, more immediate questions as well. Just how many subs were hiding in that mess?

  Adams’s voice came over the squawk box. “Captain, all stations manned and ready, quiet routine in effect throughout the boat. Four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded and ready.”

  “Very well. Boomer, ensure we are clear of that mob, but I want to stay here as long as possible. We’ve got to see if they’re sending the ballistic missile subs out.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Adams would try to conn the boat away from the group of Soviet ships emerging from Petropavlovsk, but their movements were unpredictable. The simplest thing would have been to work their way to sea and report, but the report would be incomplete. Manriquez needed to see exactly how many units were leaving port.

  The sonar operator looked over his shoulder at the captain.
“Sir, I’ve found heavy screw beats, bearing three zero one.”

  Chief Kelsey looked at the display. “Right in the middle of that mess. If we can hear them at this range, those must be serious screws.” He glanced quickly at the captain. “Kiev-class, Skipper?”

  “Probably. Let’s just sit tight and watch the show.”

  Over the next hour, they watched the gaggle of Soviet surface ships pass, creeping at slow speed and zigging often to confuse anyone trying to track them.

  Once the formation was well on its way to sea, Manriquez walked back to control. Speaking softly, almost whispering, he ordered, “Move us in closer, Boomer. We won’t hear any submarines out here.”

  They started easing their way in. They had to do it quickly, before any subs hiding behind the surface task force slipped past, but movement created noise. And Manriquez was sure that if they made too much noise, the Red Navy’s entire Pacific Fleet would come crashing in around their ears.

  They closed on what appeared to be empty water, but the chart showed the channel that submerged submarines would have to use to sortie.

  The speaker was secured during silent routine. Instead a talker with a mike and earphones spoke softly. “Sir, sonar reports a passive sonar contact off the port bow. Machinery noises, screw beats, classified as a Delta II ballistic missile submarine.”

  An odd feeling of mixed triumph and anxiety filled Manriquez. He had his answer. The Soviets were sending out their boomers. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Right. Let’s get out of here.”

  They turned slowly, easing their way out. “Captain, Sonar reports more active sonars. They think it’s a line of sonobuoys, bearing southeast. Not too close, though.”

  Manriquez looked at the plot. The buoy line wasn’t close to their intended track so it wasn’t a threat to them, but it meant that there were ASW aircraft up screening the Russian subs as they sortied.

  “Sonar reports two more buoy lines, to the north and northeast. Neither is close.”

  Manriquez still wasn’t too worried. The Soviets didn’t seem to be actively looking for them and they had plenty of sea room. Adams was already steering Drum toward one of the gaps in the sonobuoy lines. The question was, were there more fields coming? And what else was out here? In this acoustic murk, active sonar was a good way to see things, but Drum couldn’t use hers. Not without announcing her unwanted presence to the world at large.

  Suddenly, the talker announced, “Sonar reports active pinging close aboard to port!” His tone was the closest thing to a shout quiet routine would allow.

  Adams started to turn the sub away from the source, while also changing depth.

  Manriquez listened to the exec’s hastily snapped orders with one ear and leaned over the plot. “Is it another buoy field?”

  The talker spoke into his microphone, then listened. “No, sir, it isn’t a multiple source. They think it’s a dipping sonar, signal strength moderate.”

  Dipping sonars were used by ASW helicopters, which could hover while lowering their sonar transducers on long cables into the water. They always operated in pairs, and this close to a major port, there might be many such pairs. Manriquez made a decision. They had to get clear before the Soviets got lucky and landed a helo right on top of them. “Boomer, increase our speed. If they detect us actively, being quiet won’t help.”

  ABOARD ALEKSANDR OGARKOV

  “Comrade Captain, we have a passive sonar contact. Faint screw beats bearing three five one.”

  Captain Kulakov was also staring at a sonar display. The new contact’s postion did not correlate with the location of any of the Soviet attack subs fanning out from Petropavlovsk. It had to be an intruder, an American.

  And with sonar conditions this poor, the American submarine had to be close. Too close. The American might already have one of the Red Navy’s precious ballistic missile subs in his sights. “Fire control party, prepare to fire a spread on my order.”

  Kulakov didn’t plan to wait for a full fire control solution, intending instead to launch several torpedoes centered on the American sub’s location as soon as his tracking party had a rough idea of its heading.

  He smiled grimly. The American subs were excellent. And that was why only the newest and best submarines, like his Akula-class boat, were assigned to this work. Ogarkov and its counterparts had sortied with the surface ships, then taken up positions to screen the ballistic missile submarines as they left port.

  For once, Kulakov’s orders from Fleet Command made sense. He was to protect the deploying subs from sneak attacks, like the kind the Americans had made on Dribinov. His orders made it clear that there would be no more surprises. This intruder would be stopped.

  “Sir, screw beats now bear three five three.”

  “Very well.” Kulakov tensed. They had their bearing rate. “Stand by to fire.”

  ABOARD USS DRUM

  The talker had a new report. “Skipper, passive sonar contact bearing one seven two. Screw beats.”

  Manriquez called softly to Ed Baum. “Stop everything you’re doing and start a plot on this contact.”

  “Sonar evaluates contact as possible submarine at creep speed, high bearing rate.”

  That last bit of information galvanized the control room crew. A rapidly changing bearing at slow speed meant the new contact was very close.

  Manriquez took a shallow breath and released it. “Boomer, come right. Put the contact on our beam. As soon as we can determine his course, we’ll head for his baffles and try to slip away—”

  “Sonar reports transients! Torpedoes inbound!

  Shit. “Launch a decoy! Right hard rudder, all ahead flank! Take her deep!” Manriquez paused for one microsecond, then said, “Fire one and two with a four-degree spread, and make them active homers.”

  He felt the boat start to heel over as she built up speed and started to turn. He regretted having to fire, but his mission was to survive and report. Shooting at the other side was a good way to start a war, but he suspected that one was already under way.

  ABOARD ALEKSANDR OGARKOV

  “Captain, the American has returned fire! Two torpedoes inbound.”

  Kulakov felt his heart flutter and then pump faster. “Emergency speed! Turn on the active sonar and track the American. Release a decoy!”

  ABOARD USS DRUM

  “Captain, the Russian’s gone active. Two of the torpedoes have a high bearing rate, the other two are still closing.”

  Manriquez swore under his breath and started snapping out maneuvering orders. This was going to be a damned tight squeeze. They’d dodged two of the incoming torps, but the others were going to be tougher.

  OFF THE SOVIET NORTH PACIFIC COAST

  The two combatants maneuvered, dodging and turning at high speed as each tried to evade the weapons heading toward them. The Mark 48 torpedoes were faster than their Soviet counterparts, so that even though they were fired later, they reached the Soviet sub first.

  Fired without correction for the target’s course and speed, Drum’s shots depended on the small active homer built into the nose of each torpedo to find and attack the target.

  One Mark 48 had been fired to either side of the Ogarkov’s estimated position, so that whichever direction it turned, at least one would be in a position to see the Soviet sub.

  In the end, both saw him and attacked. Detection range in the noisy water conditions off Petropavlovsk was so short that both torpedoes’ powerful sonars illuminated the Akula-class sub at point-blank range.

  One struck amidships, the other aft—in the engine compartment. Ogarkov’s double-hull construction could not survive two hits. In addition to the salt water pouring through the two tears in the hull, the double shock wrecked equipment throughout the ship and threw men across compartments into steel bulkheads. With so much flooding there was no hope of saving the boat. Powerless, without any control at all, Ogarkov tumbled downward on its long journey toward the ocean floor.

  ABOARD USS DRUM

/>   Drum’s sonar operator heard the explosion, but he was too busy tracking the weapons headed toward them to report it. “Captain, those two torps have locked onto us!”

  Manriquez glanced quickly at the scope over his shoulder; the strobes were getting wider and stronger. Jesus.

  Ten seconds passed. Wait for it. Fifteen seconds. Now. “Launch two more decoys.”

  Shot out of the sub’s signal ejector, the decoys hovered in the water and emitted sonar signals designed to confuse the guidance systems of the Soviet torpedoes. One was seduced by the decoys, turned toward them, and exploded. The other was too close and it hit the American submarine forward, just under the sail.

  Manriquez, Adams, Baum, and everyone else in the control room were thrown to the deck and plunged into darkness, while one deck below, water shot in through a two-foot tear in Drum’s hull.

  “Blow everything!” Manriquez shouted, trying desperately to counter the tons of weight being added to the hull as compartments flooded. It wasn’t enough.

  Too heavy to maintain even neutral buoyancy, air bubbling from its vents and from the gash in its hull, the American sub followed its Soviet opponent down to the bottom.

  KING’S BAY, GEORGIA

  Rear Admiral John Fogarty focused his night-vision glasses and watched as the long, dark shapes glided silently past his station and out to sea. Two Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines were under way—each nearly twice the length of a football field and larger than a World War II-era heavy cruiser. White foam churned by their massive propellers glistened momentarily in the moonlight and then vanished as if it had never been.

  He tracked the SSBNs until they could no longer be seen and then heaved a small sigh of relief. The most dangerous moments for any ballistic missile sub were always in port. Anchored beside a supporting sub tender, the Ohios were nothing more than sitting ducks. But once they were at sea, the huge boats were so quiet that the Soviets could never seriously hope to find them. A significant percentage of America’s nuclear deterrent was now effectively invulnerable.