Red Phoenix (47 page)

ASW PLOT, USS
CONSTELLATION

“We’ve got him, sir, on the edge. The joker zigged on us.”

Brown pulled at his jaw. “Can we drop on him?” The air controller didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. Five hundred yards?”

“Yeah. How precise is your fix?” Brown wanted to scare the bastard out there, not kill him. Not yet.

“Good, sir. It’s a strong return. Present course is zero eight zero, speed is… one knot.” The controller’s voice faltered.

Crap. Brown had seen this stunt before. “That’s not the sub. That’s a decoy!” This sub driver was smart. He’d popped a noisemaking decoy out of one of his signal ejectors and probably turned the other way, hoping the Americans would follow the wrong one. Well, they had. The controller started giving directions to his planes. “Whiskey Four, this is Alpha Whiskey. Pattern Charlie Three, centered on datum.” He looked at Brown. “Sir, if we keep using circular patterns, the S-3s are gonna run out of buoys in a hurry.”

Brown pondered that, but only for a few seconds. “Keep it up. We’ve got ten aircraft, and we’re going to use them. I’ll start arranging resupply flights of sonobuoys from Japan and the Philippines. If I have to, I’ll strip the Pacific, but I’m not letting any sub close to this force.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The controller nodded and turned back to his task. The admiral’s answer was the only one that made sense, but there were going to be a lot of busy supply officers from here to Pearl Harbor.

ABOARD WHISKEY FOUR

The S-3 Viking wheeled into position to lay its sonobuoy pattern. From the outside it looked pretty slow. All the action went on inside the sub hunter’s cabin.

Whiskey Four’s tactical coordinator, or TACCO, sat on a computer display that showed all known information about the contact and the units “prosecuting” it. He heard the order from the
Connie
for a new sonobuoy pattern and keyed it onto the screen. The tactical computer looked at the plane’s position, the contact’s last known course and speed, and the ordered buoy pattern. Its microprocessors began calculating the positions of the buoys in the water, including such factors as the sonar conditions and the plane’s distance from the sub’s assumed position.

Up forward, Whiskey Four’s pilot sat with his hands in his lap as the computer took over the controls and started banking the S-3 toward the plotted position of the first buoy it planned to drop. He controlled the surge of irritation he always felt when the TACCO’s toy turned him into a passenger. It was difficult, but good ASW work required absolute precision, and five years of experience had taught him that only a computer-controlled buoy drop could guarantee that kind of accuracy.

In the plane’s belly a burly crewman loaded buoys into a bank of launch tubes. As each slid into place, the S-3’s tactical computer gave it a quick burst of instructions—how deep to lower its microphone, which radio channel to use when sending data back, and a slew of other commands needed to make it work.

When Whiskey Four reached the computer-selected start position, it released its first buoy. The canister slid down the launch tube and out into the aircraft’s slipstream. A small parachute snapped open and the sonobuoy slid downwind into the water. Others followed at: regular intervals. The TACCO watched as small symbols appeared on his screen, marching slowly in a circle around a moving symbol that showed where the enemy sub might be.

He waited until the Viking had dropped the last buoy in this pattern and then leveled out of its long bank. With a smile on his face he pressed a key and imagined the sound waves that were now radiating outward through the cold water below. Knock, knock, tough guy.

ASW PLOT, USS
CONSTELLATION

“Four’s got a solid return, Admiral. Course one seven zero, speed four knots.”

Brown smiled. “He’s still trying to work south. Persistent bugger, I’ll give him that.” His smile disappeared. “Okay, Tim. Drop another charge, this time five hundred yards in front of him.” The admiral leaned closer to study the ASW plot. The sub driver out there had guts, maybe too many to keep pussyfooting around like this. “How close is he now?”

“Forty-two miles from
Constellation.
Thirty-five miles from the forward edge of our screen.” The ASW controller sounded just a tad impatient. Brown knew he should back away and let his subordinates do their jobs. They couldn’t find it easy trying to work with him staring over their shoulders. He allowed himself a minor twinge of conscience over that and then refocused his mind on the hunt.

He tapped the aircraft status board, pondering his next move. Then he nodded to the ASW controller. “All right. Let’s give the Vikings some help.”

ABOARD
KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

The rumbling had been louder this time, and Markov well understood the message it carried. He’d used up ten percent of his battery charge trying to break free of the last field, and he’d almost succeeded. Almost.

But now the rumbling explosion of the American depth charge rang in his ears like laughter. All right. He would use their own laughter against them. “Full speed. Steer for the place where the depth charge exploded.”

His control room crew leapt to obey.

Markov was gambling again. He knew the depth charge explosion would rumble through the sea for several minutes, and the water it had roiled
would return confused echoes to the American active sonars.
Dribinov’s
high-speed propeller noise should be cloaked by those echoes—allowing him to merge his sub with them, wait for the echoes to fade, and then motor away quietly. The Soviet crew listened carefully, and Markov slowed the sub’s electric motors as the rumbling subsided. Two minutes later
Dribinov
reached the “knuckle” in the water formed when the depth charge exploded. A little turbulence remained, gently rocking the sub’s mass left and right. “All stop,” Markov called out softly. Knuckles did not move.

He looked at the gauges showing the submarine’s battery charge level. That minute and a half at full power had considerably reduced his battery charge. The same power that would last for days while creeping at three knots could be used up by an hour’s dash at twenty knots.

His first officer followed his gaze and arched an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Now what? Markov spread his hands, careful not to bump anything that might make noise. They drifted for five minutes in complete silence, hoping the search would move away from them. At last Markov ordered, “Speed three knots, course one eight zero.” Dead south, toward the Americans again.

“Comrade Captain, I have new active sonar transmissions, to the west.” The sonar operator smiled. “They are weak, at least five or six kilometers distant.”

“Excellent.” Markov turned back to his first officer. “You see, Dimitri, the Americans are not unbeatable. Now we’ll simply move south until we can hear their task force, find a hole in their sonar screen, and then—”

PIINGG
! Almost too high to be heard, the pulse was so strong that Markov didn’t need the sonar operator to tell him that they had been detected.

“What direction?” he called.

“Bearing two one seven.” Shit.

PIINGG!

“Full speed, hard left rudder.” Markov was running out of tricks. Now all he could do was try to get away from this latest active sonar, and do it as quickly as possible.

PIINGG!
This was getting annoying. How many sonobuoys did the Americans have anyway? “Classify that damned noise,” Markov demanded. The operator studied his scope, analyzing the frequency and type of the sonar signal bouncing off the
Dribinov’s
hull. “It’s not a buoy, Comrade Captain. It’s a dipping sonar, of the kind mounted on American helicopters.”

ASW PLOT USS
CONSTELLATION

“Hotel Two is still holding, Admiral. Three is almost in position.” The controller controlled his excitement, trying to concentrate on the complicated hunt.

“Great. If Three gets a solid contact, have Two leapfrog and drop a depth charge at two fifty.” The symbols on the screen showed one helicopter moving into position, slowing until it was in a hover. It was lowering a cable mounting a powerful, high-frequency sonar into the water, right in front of the submarine’s predicted position. Unlike the low-frequency sets the ships carried, the helicopter’s sonar wasn’t degraded by shallow water.

As soon as the SH-3H Sea King known as Hotel Three turned on its sonar, it detected the sub, moving at high speed away from Two’s position. Bracketed between the two pingers, it altered course to the right, racing ahead at twenty knots.

Brown was impressed. This guy was still trying to move south. “Okay, have Two drop and move Whiskey Four and Six in to backstop the helos to the south.” The symbol for Hotel Two changed shape as it reeled in its cable, then took off at eighty knots under the direction of Three’s sonar operator. Twenty knots was fast for a diesel submarine, but no sub could outrun a helicopter, and getting away from two was at least twice as hard.

Brown and the ASW controller listened in on the radio circuit. “Hotel Three, steer zero seven three magnetic. On top in thirty seconds.” The helicopter’s rotors and engine could be heard in the background.

“Roger.”

“Hotel Three, correct to zero six nine. You are on top now, now, NOW.”

“Weapon away!”

ABOARD
KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

This explosion was closer, and so loud that for a moment Markov thought they had dropped right on top of his submarine. When he recovered his composure, he ordered all compartments to check for damage, more for drill than because he expected any.

While he waited for reports from his officers, Markov stared at the plot. What had once seemed possible was now clearly beyond the capabilities of his submarine. Now that the Americans had his position fixed so precisely, they’d never let him break clear—not with both fixed-wing aircraft and now helicopters hovering right over him. And even if he could, it wouldn’t do much good.
Dribinov’s
battery charge was down below sixty-five percent. Another hour or so of hard maneuvering would leave his submarine powerless unless he came to periscope depth, switched to diesel engines, and started snorkeling. And the moment he did that, anybody with a decent sonar within range would know exactly where he was. Snorkeling was noisy.

“All compartments report no damage, Comrade Captain.”

Markov thanked his first officer absentmindedly and came to a decision. Political second-guessers in Moscow might interpret it as simple cowardice,
but it was only military common sense. The American “warnings” were getting stronger, and he couldn’t know if the next one would be aimed to kill or just “very close.” Technically the Americans would be within their rights if they sank him without further notice.
Dribinov
was inside a declared exclusion zone, and as “an unidentified submarine” it could be sent to the bottom at will.

His orders were to deliver a message, but the orders hadn’t included losing the messenger in the process. It was time
Dribinov
became an “identified submarine.”

PIINNG
.

Markov took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then shrugged. “Surface. Take us up, Dimitri, and rig for diesel power. We’ve lost this game.”

ASW PLOT, USS
CONSTELLATION

The admiral sighed with relief as he listened in to the excited chatter of the ASW copter crews. Their intruder was a Russian, all right—Tango-class. Brown hadn’t expected to find any North Koreans out this far, but it was nice to know he wouldn’t have to kill anybody this time.

After the last attack Hotel Two had reported the sub’s surfacing. Now as Brown watched, the display changed, showing the Soviet submarine moving east at fifteen knots, away from the task force’s track.

He allowed himself a small pat on the back. His people had done well. The Soviet sub had been forced to surface more than thirty miles ahead of the task force. Nobody hurt. And at its present speed, his formation would put the Tango well behind it in about four or five hours. Until then an armed ASW aircraft would escort the Russian boat, ensuring that it stayed on the surface and headed in the right direction.

He shook his head wearily. The Soviets seemed determined to press their luck against his ships. First on the surface, with the
Kavkaz,
and now with that plucky diesel-electric boat. What would they try next? He doubted they’d give up so easily.

He was right, and the Soviet countermove materialized even as he walked away from the ASW plot board.

“Sir, we have nine aircraft at thirty-seven thousand feet, three hundred thirty miles. Speed is four hundred and sixty knots. They’re headed directly for us. Negative IFF.”

Well, Brown could probably have guessed the last. Best not to take chances. “Sound general quarters. Launch another four Hornets to back up the CAP and then get some tankers up. Our birds are gonna need some juice pretty soon.” If they were hostile, he’d have a hot reception waiting for
them. If they were just testing his reflexes, he’d show them that they were still lightning-quick. His eyes swept over the air display. The
Constellation’s
air warfare coordinator had already vectored the two Combat Air Patrol fighters on the threat axis to intercept.

“Admiral, we’ve detected Down Beat radar emissions. The bogies are probably Backfire bombers.” The carrier’s electronic warfare officer looked a little pale, but his training was still holding.

Brown was concerned but not alarmed. The Soviets often used American battle groups as live targets for training exercises. He’d seen it in both the Mediterranean and the Pacific. They did it to make a point, or to harass a formation. Both of these in our case, he thought. Well, let ’em come in and play. If the Soviets wanted to make a serious attack, they’d have sent at least three times the number of supersonic bombers now closing on his formation. No, this was just another game.

He listened to the GQ klaxon echoing through the carrier and watched as
MANNED AND READY
appeared by every weapons mount and sensor system in the task force. The Soviets wanted to practice? Fine. Brown and his ships would get some more practice in, too. He moved to the anti-air plot and started snapping out orders.