Tomcat tsf-3

by David E. Meadows

  “Got it, sir. Go ahead.”

  “The wake is increasing. The submarine has increased its speed and remains on course toward the open sea, Commander. I see no one topside. Hatches are buttoned down!”

  Stillwell straightened his headset so the earphones covered his ears and called Command Task Force Sixty seven.

  “We’ve got him,” John Andrews said. “Tape is rolling, and we are zooming in on the boat. No one topside on the submarine. Skipper, I think he is preparing to submerge.

  Bow looks lower.”

  “sixty-seven, this is ranger Two niner.

  How read, over?”

  Commander Steve Cloth, the Air Operations boss for Command Task Force Sixty-seven, lifted the phone.

  “Ranger Two Niner, this is Six Seven. I read you fivers, go ahead.”

  “Roger, Six Seven. We have an Algerian submarine on top of the water, approximately seven miles out of Oran on a heading of zero six zero, speed estimated at ten knots; in process of submerging.”

  Dick Holman shoved himself up from the captain’s chair he had been occupying for the past two hours and hurried over to the chart table, where Commander Steve Cloth had turned. The two men’s fingers collided on the chart as they touched where the Algerian submarine should be. He wished the Stennis had a holograph display unit like the two amphibious ships, the Kearsarge and the Nassau. It made fighting the maneuvering war so much easier.

  “Roger, Ranger Two Niner. What are your position and intentions?”

  “Six Seven. We are leveling off at two thousand feet for a flyby. Big Eyes is rolling. Tugboat escorted the submarine out to sea, but when it saw us, it broke away and is now headed back to port.”

  Dick Holman turned to the Operations specialist chief petty officer standing to his left. “Chief, have someone call Admiral Devlin and Admiral Cameron. Give them my respects and ask them to join us in the Air Operations space as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the chief responded and hurried off to do the tasking himself.

  Five minutes later, Admiral Devlin walked through the watertight door, followed immediately by Admiral Cameron escorted by his chief of staff, Captain Clive Bowen.

  “What you got, Dick?” Admiral Cameron asked.

  “The EP-3E caught the Algerian submarine Al Nasser on top of the water as it was exiting Oran Naval Base.”

  The door opened again, and Captain Kurt Lederman, the intelligence officer, entered. Dick said it again for the benefit of Kurt, who nodded sagely as if he expected nothing less than for the aircraft to catch the submarine on the surface of the water. “I thought something like this would happen,” Kurt said, wondering how in the hell the Al Nasser got repaired and under way so quickly.

  “Sixty^seven, Ranger Two Niner; we are abreast of the submarine, and it is beginning to submerge. Bow is awash.”

  Steve Cloth clicked the phone twice. “Wait one. Two Niner.”

  “We still have those Hornets orbiting overhead?” Admiral Cameron asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Commander Cloth responded.

  “Dick,” tell them to take the submarine out before it submerges.”

  Dick Holman moved to the air traffic controller, a firstclass petty officer monitoring the air radar screen. “You got contact with Moonlighter flight?”

  The operator slid his headset down slightly. “Yes, sir.

  That’s who I’m directing now.”

  “Good. Are you in secure mode?”

  “Sixty-seven, Ranger Two Nine; the submarine is submerging.

  Expect to lose visual contact within a minute.”

  “Roger, Two Niner. Let us know when it disappears.”

  The ATE glanced at his mode switches and nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I have the Hornets on secure com ms mode.”

  “Tell Beacon formation they have weapons free. We have an immediate surface attack mission for them.” Then he continued giving specific directions to be relayed to the Marine Corps Moonlighter squadron FA-18D Hornet formation.

  “Roger, sir, I can tell them that, but their weapons loadout is for air combat. All they’ve got for a surface attack are their cannons.”

  “Moonlighter Two Six, this Six Seven. Do you read?”

  “Read you fivers. Six Seven. Hey, how much longer we going to be out here?”

  Ignoring the question, the ATE operator continued, “Moonlighter Two Six, you have weapons free. Your high-value asset has detected enemy submarine on the surface approximately nine miles north of Oran. Your orders are to sink her.” He looked up at the new commander.

  Task Force Sixty-seven, to ensure he transmitted the orders as directed.

  “Holy shit, Stennis! We only have Sidewinders and AMRAAMs!” “Sixty-seven says to use your guns.”

  Dick Holman touched the sailor on the shoulder and nodded once.

  “Roger, Six Seven. This is Moonlighter Two Six.

  Moonlighter flight Two Six; check master arm on, weapons free. You heard the man, let’s make life jolly for the submariner waiting for us below. Six Seven, be advised this will be a guns attack, and you may expect cannon fodder from submarine pieces within two minutes.”

  Steve Cloth touched Dick Holman on the arm. “Commodore, we do have a P-3C conducting a surface maritime patrol about a hundred twenty miles northeast of the datum. According to their ATO, they have a full load out of soriohouys and one Mark-50 torpedo. With your permission, I would like to divert them to the area. If the Hornets fail, the P-3 can track the submerged submarine until we can get ASW forces in the area.”

  “Roger. Steve. Make it so.”

  The air traffic controller flipped a switch to pipe the conversation between the four FA-18 Hornets as they dove to the attack. An electronic screech accompanied the first transmission.

  “Moonlighter flight, Moonlighter Two Six. Follow me. boys, we’re going in for some strafing action.”

  The four FA-18s flipped to the right, as one after the other they followed the lead aircraft down through the clouds, depending on their radar system to keep them from hitting each other. Six thousand feet above the Mediterranean, they emerged to a clear sky.

  “Ranger Two Nine, Moonlighter Two Six, request your position.”

  “Moonlighter Two Six, we have you. six miles astern of us. Turn right and parallel the coast. Target will be dead ahead of you six miles.”

  “Roger. Moonlighter flight, master arm on. Weapons free, and for God’s sake, don’t shoot your wingman.”

  “I’ve got a wingman?” one of the pilots asked jokingly.

  “Sixty seven. Ranger Two Nine. The bow of the submarine has disappeared. Stern section is awash. Conning tower remains above water. Target is on course zero six with an estimated speed of twelve knots.” “Moonlighter flight, afterburner now!” shouted Two Six as he hurried to arrive over target before it disappeared completely beneath the sea. He wiggled his Hornet fighter back and forth, trying to get a visual on the surface target. Glancing at his heads-up display, he saw they were two miles from target.

  “Lead is in hot. follow me,” he said, although he had yet to gain a radar lock or a visual on the target. He relied on the data transmission generated by Ranger Two Nine to locate the Algerian submarine.

  At two thousand feet, his eye caught a slight movement in the water. He scanned the area where he caught the movement and — bingo — there it was, the conning tower still above the waterline but disappearing rapidly beneath the sea.

  “There she is!” he shouted over the radio and turned his aircraft slightly toward the target. The other three fighters adjusted their course to match Moonlighter Two Six. A half mile out, he started firing his twenty-millimeter cannon. The odds of missing a target the small size of a conning tower, complicated by it submerging, was high.

  “Trail formation,” he directed.

  The three Hornets maneuvered behind him, increased speed, and came out in a trail formation of four fighters in a row. Cannons blasted away as their aircraft dove on th
e disappearing target.

  The last of the four fighters passed over the conning tower as it disappeared under the water. Moonlighter Two Six ordered the formation to climb and rejoin. They were at two hundred when the formation finished its only attack run.

  “Sixty-seven, Moonlighter Two Six. We got one pass, sir. No confirmation if we hit it, but the submarine has submerged.”

  “Roger, Moonlighter. Request resume combat air patrol.

  Ranger Two Nine, continue to track the submarine.

  We have a P-3C enroute “

  “Six Seven, Ranger Two Nine. Submarine last course zero six zero at twelve knots when it submerged.”

  * * *

  Admirals Cameron and Pete Devlin intentionally stood back as Dick Holman led the tracking effort against the Algerian submarine. Both men had been in the same hot seat that Dick now occupied, and the one thing they hated most were powers to be deciding they had to be involved at the micro level

  “Pete, better give General Rocky Lewis a call and brief him about the submarine. He’ll probably want to come down and watch the action. Plus, it will give us a chance to show him how the Navy is exercising its role in African Force.”

  “Might be better to wait until we finish?” Pete said flippantly.

  Cameron shook his head. “As much as the thought might be appealing, Pete, he is the commander of African Force.” Admiral Cameron crossed his arms. “Give him a call.”

  Rear Admiral Pete Devlin crossed to the nearby bulkhead, where a ship’s telephone was mounted. With his thumb, he freed the handset from the locked position and, like a normal rotary telephone, dialed the number for General Lewis’s stateroom.

  “Steve, how soon can we get a couple of S-3s loaded with Mark-50 torpedoes in the air?” Dick Holman asked.

  Steve shook his head. “I will have to check. Commodore.

  We have been using them in a maritime surveillance role. I am unsure if we have the weapons readily available, even if we can turn the aircraft around soon enough.” He stopped. “Sorry, Captain. Thinking out loud, I would say we could launch a couple of S-3s with a couple of Mark-50s each in the next launch evolution an hour from now.”

  “Okay, let’s make preparations to do it.”

  Steve Cloth hustled to the nearby bank of telephones and ship’s interior communication systems and quickly relayed instructions to the flight deck officer, the S-3 squadron officer in charge, and the ship’s company to arm and launch an antisubmarine mission.

  Pete Devlin moved back to the side of Admiral Cameron. “The word has been relayed, Admiral.”

  “Is he on his way down?”

  Pete shook his head. “No, I talked with his executive aide. Colonel Brad Storey. The general is in the gym working out and intends to do a five-mile jog down on the Hangar Deck when he finishes there. Colonel Storey said he will take the news to the general, but unless we hear from him sooner, then expect the new commander in about an hour.”

  “An hour? Doesn’t he know that sea battles move faster than land engagements?”

  Pete Devlin shrugged his shoulders. “Guess he has confidence in us to do the right thing.”

  Admiral Cameron’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, he oozed confidence earlier with me.” “You never did say what you two discussed when he asked you to remain behind.”

  Cameron shook his head. “Nothing important. We continued our discussion on—” He nodded his head at Dick Holman’s back. “And about his philosophy on how body fat determines the intellectual qualities and war fighting capabilities of a warrior.”

  “Admiral, 1 know how you like to stay above things, but I have a backdoor E-mail from the Pentagon that gives some insight as to why he was sent here. If you are interested —”

  Admiral Cameron shook his head. “No, thanks. Pete. I like to develop my own opinions and insights without having Washington politics taint them. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff would never have sent General Lewis if he didn’t think the man was right for the job. Our job is to do everything possible so he can succeed. That means executing his orders expeditiously and without reservations — legal orders, of course — and giving him any advice he may need or ask for.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Six-seven, Ranger Two Nine. We can see the dark outline of the submarine beneath the water. It is still too shallow for him to go deeper. We are descending another thousand feet to improve the view.”

  Dick Holman moved to the navigational chart taped down on the plotting table. He ran his finger along the outlined depth contour of the coastal shelf. He looked up at Admiral Cameron.

  “Admiral, according to the navigational chart, the sub marine will have to remain on this base course for another hour before he gains access to deep water. When that happens, we may lose him.”

  Commander Steve Cloth crossed over to the plotting table. “Admirals, Commodore, we can launch the S-3s next cycle. They are being armed now. The P-3C should be arriving within the next thirty minutes and can start laying sonobuoys ahead of the submarine. With luck, we should be able to track him for the next hour. We still have plenty of daylight remaining.”

  Admiral Cameron nodded. He walked over and ran his finger from the Oran Naval Base along a base course of zero six zero degrees. “See this, gentlemen.” His finger continued onward for several more inches before it crossed through the middle of the small nameplates identifying the USS Stennis battle group and the USS Kearsarge Amphibious Task Force. “If he continues on this course—”

  “He’ll arrive in our vicinity sometime tomorrow morning,” Steve Cloth added.

  “Correct, Commander. We need to sink that submarine tonight. Meanwhile … Pete!” he called. “Alert the fleet to the possible approach of an enemy submarine. I want to move the high-value units Stennis and the amphibious ships to the far side of the operations area. Put the destroyers between them and the approaching submarine.

  Contact the USS Miami and USS Albany and deploy them … ” He pointed to two positions north and south of the enemy submarine PIM — position of intended movement.

  “… so our two submarines can bracket him if he makes it this far. Make sure everyone knows the op areas we are assigning to our submarines. The last thing we need is a blue-on-blue incident,” he said. water sprayed through the conning tower where the American cannon shells had entered.

  Blood splattered the depth-control gauges across the bridge area where the three crew members died absorbing the impact of spent shells. Ibn Al Jamal sloshed through two inches of water running across the deck and through the opened hatch leading to the next level. The gauge showed their depth at fifty feet. The sea floor was less than twenty feet beneath their keel, but it was slowly increasing.

  They had little choice but to either continue on their current course to deeper water or settle on the sandy bottom here. Whichever course of action he chose, the damage to the Al Nasser had to be repaired. Ibn Al Jamal straightened up and watched the action around him as he thought about his options. The Oran Naval Base was not one of them.

  Crew members rushed to the large holes above their heads with damage-control padding and rubber seals, fighting to stop the flood. Two sailors slid a large rubber pad across one of the larger holes, while another stood nearby with a cone-shaped piece of wood. Behind him, another sailor held a sledgehammer at the ready. This was the tricky part. The rubber piece covered the hole, but the high pressure outside caused seawater to shoot into the submarine from beneath it. The sailor with the cone wedge placed the point in the center of the rubber padding. He barely moved his hand before the sledgehammer slammed down on the top of the wedge, driving the damage control piece, with one motion, into the hole.

  The water slowed. The hammer came down twice more, driving the wooden wedge deeper into the hull until the water stopped.

  The XO turned to another hole. The damage control team hurried with him. The tall XO led the effort, shouting for a crew member to stuff the rubber pad while another fetched a
shoring timber to put against the cone once it was driven in.

  Ibn Al Jamal knew he could stop the flooding easily by surfacing, but surfacing meant exposing Al Nasser to another aerial attack. No, beneath the sea is how submarines avoided air attacks and electronic detection. The damage to the conning tower limited the depth the Algerian diesel powered Kilo attack submarine could operate. Ibn Al

  Jamal glanced again at the depth gauge. They had leveled out at sixty feet. The farther they went down, the more pressure the sea exerted on the temporary repairs to the damaged conning tower. How far down could he go before the sea pressure popped the damage control repairs like a cork on a champagne bottle?

  The three remaining holes were repaired using the same method as the largest one. The XO assigned two sailors to remain in the area and keep watch on the repairs.

  He turned and looked at Ibn Al Jamal.

  The skipper nodded back. The two men joined near the navigation table and reviewed the chart.

  Ibn Al Jamal briefed the XO and the navigator about the importance of remaining on this course until they reached deeper water. However, even when they reached it, he wasn’t sure the submarine could take the increased depth. The XO wanted to know if they had evaded the American forces that attacked them. Were they safe?

  Ibn Al Jamal shrugged his shoulders. Since they submerged, the attack had stopped, but they were at shallow depth, making their silhouette easily discernible from the air in the calm sea surrounding the Oran Naval Base. All they could do was pray to Allah and continue on course until they could turn west toward Malaga, Spain.

  The other two nodded in agreement.

  “okay, let’s go around for another pass,” Commander Stillwell said to Jasbo.

  She nodded, and with the two working in tandem, they put the EP-3E into a left-hand turn. The Algerian horizon slid slowly across their windscreen as they passed through the compass degrees.

  “Passing one ninety degrees,” the navigator said through the ICS from her position behind the curtains separating the cockpit from the main body of the aircraft.

  Recommend course two seventy for three minutes; then, left turn to course zero six zero to line up with the hostile sub.”