Patterson, beaming, said, “The President will hear about this,” then bent down and hugged Reynolds, and then Harris. Both managed to look pleased and embarrassed under their oxygen masks. She quickly stood, then left, with Hardy following them back up to control.
Jerry waited his turn while the men congratulated the divers. He stepped forward when the crowd thinned.
“I’m glad you’re back in one piece, Master Chief.”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Mr. Mitchell. Thanks for getting us back.”
“So, how was the ride?” asked Jerry with genuine curiosity.
“Bumpy. And the in-flight service was terrible,” joked Reynolds, grinning. But Jerry noticed that it was a weak one.
“I still wish that I’d been out there with you, COB.”
“I think Petty Officer Harris does, too,” Reynolds answered. Harris managed to nod his head in agreement.
“I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you two and ask if there’s anything you need.”
“Aw, sir, I’m not dying. I just need to take a nap.”
“For about a week,” added Harris.
“I’m just glad a good pilot was working the Manta, sir.”
“We’ve all got plenty to be grateful for, Master Chief. I need to get going and you guys go and take that nap—right now.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” winked Reynolds.
* * * *
Talking about sleep with Reynolds reminded Jerry of his own fatigue and hunger. It was well after dinnertime, and he’d missed lunch. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had had more than a few hours of sleep at one time. Ship’s routine, as busy as it was, suddenly seemed like the nostalgic past. For all the pressure of his work and his qualifications, at least it was predictable. Two and a half weeks of survey work had left him thoroughly bone-tired. But now the Captain had turned Memphis northward. Although they’d just started, they were homebound. He almost looked forward to working on his qualifications.
He headed for the wardroom, figuring to scrounge a sandwich, but found most of the officers had the same idea. There was only one topic of discussion.
“. . . cheaper to dump them than destroy them,” Jeff Ho was saying as he came in.
Harry O’Connell, the navigator, countered, “But wouldn’t you be worried about somebody else going down and finding them, stealing them for their own use?”
Ho shrugged. “I wouldn’t advertise where I dumped them, and there’s not a lot of sport diving in the Kara Sea.”
“And that would explain the sensors,” Cal Richards added.
“But these warheads aren’t supposed to exist.” Everyone turned to see the XO standing in the door, the slate and several books in his arms. Jerry could see the books were intelligence publications with brightly colored security markings on the covers.
Bair stepped toward the table and they hurriedly cleared a place for him to sit down.
“I’ve already reported to Dr. Patterson and the Captain, and he says there’s no reason not to tell you guys about this,” he announced as he settled into his seat. “I can’t read Russian, and most of these numbers are meaningless to me, but I did find enough to tell us what we need to know.
“The markings on the case and the warhead are similar, except for a serial number, which appears to be in the same series. They both include the sequence ‘15Zh45.’ That looked like an article number.”
Jerry saw several heads nod in agreement. Russian military equipment had several different designations. While it was being developed, it would have one name, then the factory would call it something else, and the military service that actually used it would have a different name. And then there was the name that NATO had given it, because often the West didn’t learn its true name or designation until after it had been in service for some time.
“I found it in one of the older intelligence pubs we have for Russian nuclear weapons. This article number was used for the RT-21 Pioner. It was called the SS-20 Saber by NATO.” He held up the intelligence publication. “We’re lucky I was able to find anything on it at all. It was a theater ballistic missile the Soviets deployed in the 1980s. They fielded several hundred, but they were all destroyed as part of the 1987 INF treaty.”
“The what, XO?” asked a perplexed Ensign Jim Porter.
Bair gave Porter the typical forlorn scowl that all XO’s are required to master and said, “The Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, you young pup!”
A light laughter erupted in the wardroom over the XO’s reply. But it didn’t last long, not because the humor wasn’t appreciated, but because everyone was dog-tired and stressed out.
“XO, the treaty didn’t allow for the destruction of the missiles or warheads by dumping them, did it?” Jeff Ho asked.
Bair emphatically shook his head. “Definitely not. The Soviets had to declare the total number they’d manufactured and international observers witnessed the destruction of the missiles and warheads. It was a big deal. They destroyed several missile types, and we disposed of our Pershing II and ground-launched cruise missiles as well. With observers watching both sides, of course.”
“So could the records be off?” Lenny Berg asked, but Bair didn’t even bother to answer.
Like everyone else in the wardroom, Jerry processed the news and tried to understand the implications. If the Soviets, and then the Russians, had broken a nearly twenty-year-old treaty, then what else had they concealed? It did explain the acoustic sensors. But how far were the Russians willing to go to keep this secret?
After almost a minute of silence, Bair said, “The Captain also said we’re heading home.”
Jerry managed to get his sandwich and then lay down for a while. He had the midnight to six in control and knew it was bad form to fall asleep on watch. As he lay in his bunk, trying to unwind, he found himself reviewing his quals again, trying to plan how to best use the time left. . . .
* * * *
He was still shaking the sleep off when he reported. Although they were still in the Kara Sea, the watch had already settled into transit routine. Lenny Berg was the Officer of the Deck, with Jerry as the JOOD. “Let’s hope for a nice, boring watch. It will put us six hours closer to home and six hours away from this place,” remarked Lenny.
Al Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant, was the offgoing OOD, and he ran down the checklist with them: ship’s engineering systems all on line, except for one pump being checked, all sensors were on line, including both towed arrays, “And I don’t have to tell you about the weapons systems, Jerry,” he concluded. There was no criticism in his voice, but Jerry still felt bad. Although there was nothing to be done, he didn’t like letting the boat down.
Millunzi led them over to the chart table. “This is our position as of 2340.” Novaya Zemlaya lay along the western side of the paper, with most of the chart open water filled with soundings. Most of the northern Kara Sea averaged fifty to eighty fathoms, shallow for Memphis, but a deep undersea trench ten to fifteen miles wide lay close to the island’s east coast. One hundred and fifty or even two hundred fathoms looked a lot better for a submarine trying to avoid attention.
Memphis’ course lay straight up the middle of the trench, marked in red on the chart, with penciled notes marking their progress. “Current course is zero three five degrees at twelve knots, next turn is expected at 0210.” Millunzi pointed to a spot on the chart. “The new course will be zero two zero, to conform to the trench. The Captain wants to be called before the turn. He also says to keep a close eye on the fathometer. He doesn’t trust the chart.”
Berg grinned. “Really? I’ll bet the Russians have a better one. Should we ask?”
Senior Chief Leonard, the offgoing Chief of the Watch, came over and reported to Millunzi. “The watch is relieved, sir.”
“Very well, Senior Chief. See you in the morning,” Millunzi responded.
Millunzi turned back to Berg and Jerry. “That’s it? Any questions? My rack is calling.”
“I won’t keep a man from his rest,” Berg replied, smiling. “I relieve you, sir.”
The offgoing watch section cleared out quickly, and Jerry settled in. Aside from some careful navigation and frequent depth checks, he was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful six hours.
“The biggest challenge on this watch is gong to be staying alert,” Berg prophesized. “Homebound watches are dangerous. Everyone starts to slack off. They’re too busy thinking of home and hearth, and not paying enough attention to their indicators.”
“Even in the Kara Sea?” Jerry asked, half-joking.
“It’s a state of mind, not a position on the chart. Check the fathometer every five minutes, and we’re going to come up with some drills for the control room team.” He looked at the qualification book Jerry had brought along. “What are you working on now?”
“I thought maybe the communications systems.”
“Since you knew you were going to be stuck with the comms officer for six hours in the middle of the night. Well done, Mr. Mitchell. Stand by for some merciless questioning.” He paused, with his ever-present smile, then ordered, “All right, get busy.”
Trying to start a habit, Jerry checked the fathometer—two hundred forty feet under the keel and six hundred above. Good. He started a detailed check of every instrument, every switch setting in the control room. Behind him at the chart table, Lenny Berg made a conspicuous display of sitting back and opening Jerry’s qualification book.
Jerry was a quarter through his inspection when Berg hit him with the first question. “What frequency range does the UHF whip cover?” Jerry answered correctly and continued checking. Lenny hit him with a question every three or four minutes, which was also Jerry’s cue to check the fathometer and review the quartermaster’s update of the chart.
They were forty minutes into the watch when sonar jarred them out of the routine. “Conn, sonar. We’ve detected some sort of explosion, bearing one four zero.”
Jerry felt adrenaline flash like electricity through him. Berg, along with the rest of the watch, sat up quickly, but he didn’t speak. He looked as if he expected Jerry to, though.
Jerry stepped over to the intercom. “Sonar, conn. Can you tell how big?”
“Conn, sonar, Very small or very far away,” replied the sonarman. “No other activity, either, just that one transient.”
“Conn, sonar aye.” Jerry responded, still puzzled. He didn’t like mysteries, and he looked toward Berg, but Lenny looked puzzled as well.
Well, whether this was one of Bair’s drills or not, all he could do was play it by the book. Step two was to tell the Captain. Jerry picked up the phone and dialed the Captain’s cabin.
“Captain.” Hardy had picked it up on the first ring.
“Officer of the Deck, sir, sonar reports hearing an explosion some distance behind us. Either very distant or a very small explosion.”
“Very well, I’m coming.”
Hardy was there in less than a minute, fully dressed. He was still studying the chart when sonar made another report. “Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a second explosion, bearing one five zero. It’s closer this time or a bigger explosion.”
Hardy pressed the talk switch. “Sonar, conn, verify that you hold no other contacts.”
“Conn, sonar, confirmed. We hold no other contacts.”
“Then it’s aircraft,” Hardy said.
Dr. Patterson came into the control room in a robe and pajamas. “Did someone say they’d heard an explosion?” Patterson’s robe was long and white, and it had the insignia of the White House embroidered on it. She managed to look sleepy and alarmed at the same time. Emily Davis followed her in, having taken time to dress.
Hardy looked annoyed but didn’t reply, so Jerry ventured, “Sonar’s detected explosions behind us. We don’t know what they mean.”
“Wrong, Mr. Mitchell,” Hardy corrected.
“Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a third explosion, this one to port, bearing two nine five. Classify explosions as echo-ranging line charges.”
“Sonar, conn, concur with your assessment,” Hardy answered. “Keep a sharp lookout for anything that sounds like a Bear Foxtrot.”
“Conn, sonar aye.”
Jerry had to remember his sub school classes on allied and foreign ASW systems. The U.S. Navy used explosive echo-ranging back in the 1950s, before active sonobuoys entered the Fleet. The theory behind explosive echo-ranging was simple enough. Lay a field of passive sonobuoys, then drop small explosive charges. The buoys not only picked up the sound of the explosion, but any echoes off the hull of a submerged sub. The U.S. Navy stopped using the technique in the 1970s, however, because in practice it proved a lot harder to do.
The Soviets, on the other hand, had never given up on the idea, and they perfected it long before the West did. It was used to find quiet submarines operating in shallow water. Like Memphis in the Kara Sea.
It meant that there was a passive sonobuoy field near them, which had been laid by antisubmarine aircraft. Now they were monitoring the field and dropping charges, trying to find them.
“The charges are small ones,” Hardy explained. “They’re less than a pound, not much more than grenades. If they get close enough, though, they’ll find us.”
“But why didn’t we hear the aircraft this time?” asked Patterson, showing a hint of fear.
“They’re probably up high enough that the blade noise was attenuated before it reached the water. They didn’t want to spook the prey,” replied Hardy flatly. “Good tactics on their part.”
It was a nasty situation. Go fast to get away from a sonobuoy field, and you’d make enough noise for the passive buoys to pick up. Creep along, and you’re in the field long enough for them to locate you with the explosive echo-ranging.
“Mr. Berg,” the Captain ordered, “come right to course zero six zero, speed five knots. Mind your depth. I want to keep us as close to the bottom as possible and rig ship for ultra-quiet. Ladies, I need you to return to your stateroom.” Without protest, Patterson and Davis left control.
Jerry only glanced at the chart, but it was clear Hardy was taking them out of the trench, which was the sensible thing to do. The trench was an obvious route for any sub trying to leave the area, so the Russians had laid a barrier across that ten or fifteen miles. Leave the trench, and now their quarry could be anywhere in the Kara Sea. Except the trench, of course.
Lenny Berg repeated the Captain’s course and speed order and ordered Memphis down to eight hundred feet. That left sixty feet under the keel. “Jerry, get over there and watch that fathometer. Report the depth every time it changes more than ten feet.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Jerry answered.
“Conn, sonar, more explosive charges, to the north and the south.”
“Sonar, conn aye,” Berg replied, with Hardy nodding his understanding. The Russians were closing in, bracketing their position, but Memphis was already doing what needed to be done.
Jerry kept his eyes glued to the fathometer. “Depth is eight four zero feet.”
Berg replied, “Understood,” and continued working at the chart. He ordered, “Diving officer, make your depth seven eight zero feet.”
Chief Swanson repeated the depth and double-checked the planesman as he brought the boat up to the new depth. Jerry called out the depth as the bottom sloped upward.
Hugging the bottom, Memphis crept and inched her way northeast into shallower and shallower water. Berg kept his eyes on the chart and made sure the boat was never more than sixty feet off the bottom. “Sir, I recommend coming left ten degrees. There’s a deeper spot at three two zero relative, and it also puts us on a more northerly course.”
“Stay on this course, mister.” Hardy shook his head. “They were waiting for us in one deep spot. Right now, if I could, I’d put wheels on this boat.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Berg replied.
Jerry rapidly called out the depth changes, “Depth is four two zero feet and shoaling.” He tried not to sound worried. So what if the charts were incomplete? So what if the Russians were chasing them?
The sudden call on the intercom shocked them all. “Conn, sonar. Engine noises off the port bow. Multiple contacts.”
Hardy took over. “Mr. Berg, I have the conn. Increase speed to ten knots, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course zero nine zero. Mr. Berg, watch our depth.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Our depth is good for the next mile on this course.”
“Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course zero nine zero, helm aye.”
“Maneuvering making turns for ten knots.”
“Very well,” replied Hardy to the stream of reports, his eyes shifting quickly between the sonar display, fire control, and the nav chart.
“Sonar, conn. What can you tell me about those contacts?”
“Conn, sonar. I’ve got four surface contacts close aboard. They appeared suddenly and I’m getting high blade rates on all of them. I believe they were loitering in the area and now they’ve increased speed to close on us. They currently bear between zero four four and zero six five.” After a moment’s pause, the sonar operator added, “Conn, sonar. Detecting Bull Horn transmissions. Same bearings as the surface contacts.”
The report was largely redundant, as the acoustic intercept receiver started bleeping its warning tones as soon as the ships above them lit off their sonars.
That would put them right over that deeper spot that Lenny had wanted to use, Jerry thought. The Russians were using the landscape to their advantage. But how had they known Memphis was passing by? And where did those ships come from? We didn’t hear them at all!
Another buoy field, he thought. They knew Memphis would leave the trench once she heard the explosions and flushed her from one trap toward another: toward the hunters sitting in a duck blind.
The Captain continued to work with sonar. “Sonar, conn. What is the bearing rate of the surface contacts?”
“Conn, sonar. Very slight right drift, sir, and their blade rate’s increasing, they’re cavitating. I think they’re building up to maximum speed.”
“Man battle ...”
Rippling thunder interrupted Hardy’s order. A deep rumble filled the air inside the boat and stopped all activity, every quiet conversation. It was a rough, uneven noise that rose and fell, but as it fell, Jerry felt a mild vibration in the deck and the bulkhead. The Russians were shooting at them.
“Launch an NAE beacon!” Hardy ordered. “Man battle stations. Change course to three five zero, speed twelve knots. Mr. Berg, our depth?”
“We can increase depth to two hundred feet, sir. As long as we’re heading northwest at all, the slope will be downward.”
“Conn, sonar. Multiple clusters of explosions to port and starboard. Evaluated as RBU 6000 fire.” It was old news, but knowing the explosion’s location and identifying the weapon was helpful, if distressing.
Hardy nodded to Berg, then pressed the key on the intercom. “My intention is to run under them and get in their baffles while they try to sort out that countermeasure.”
Berg cautioned, “We risk leaving a wake at this speed and depth, sir.”
“I’m hoping they’ll miss it in the roiled water from the attack. Make your depth one eight zero feet,” the Captain ordered. “That should help as well.”
Lieutenant Commander O’Connell, the Navigator and battle stations OOD, came in and quickly relieved Lenny Berg. That freed up Jerry as well, and he hurried down to the torpedo room.
Most of the torpedo division was already at their stations. Jerry saw Senior Chief Foster fussing with the firing panel. He’d already declared it dead, even cremated, but he wouldn’t stop trying to resurrect it.
The phone talker, TM2 Boyd, saw Jerry and said, “Control wants to man stations for Manta launch, just in case. We’re still at ultra-quiet.”
Jerry quickly put on his phones and started checking the panel. Davidson and Greer were already at their launch positions.
Even before Jerry could report the Manta ready for operations, the control room talker reported, “The Captain wants to know the status of the Manta’s battery.”
Jerry didn’t have to look at the gauge. It was the first thing he’d checked. “Forty-seven percent. Call it three and a half hours at ten knots.”
The phone talker replied, “Forty-seven percent, control aye,” and that was it.
The silence on the phone line pulled at him, demanding to be filled, but Jerry forced himself to be patient. The Russians were close aboard, and all he could do was wait. They might secure in half an hour or they might be here tomorrow morning, still having done nothing. Hopefully having done nothing, he corrected himself.
Jerry checked the space, making sure that everyone was quiet and on the job. The men sat or stood at their stations quietly, speaking in whispers. Foster had several tech manuals out and was leafing through them, being careful to turn the pages quietly.
Another rumble made them turn their heads, automatically trying to locate the sound, which was nearly impossible after passing through both water and a steel hull. Jerry wanted to think it was behind them. It certainly sounded fainter.
WHAAMM. Jerry felt, as well as heard the explosion. It was painful; he couldn’t tell whether from the shock or the intensity of the sound. He looked around the torpedo room in alarm, convinced that water was pouring in somewhere. It reassured him to see that the hull was still intact, but then a second, even stronger explosion rocked the sub.
Jerry had to hang on to the console to stay in his seat. Objects fell out of their racks. Foster’s coffee cup shattered on the deck. The lights failed and the battle lanterns automatically clicked on, then off a moment later as the overhead lights flickered back to life.
The first explosions, the ones Jerry had felt up in control, had been many smaller charges detonating together, like popcorn. Those were RBU-6000 ASW rockets fired by the surface ships. They had a small warhead, only about fifty pounds of explosive, but each mount fired twelve projectiles.
The last two jolts were hammer blows. Jerry had never imagined anything could be so powerful and not destroy the sub.
“Check the room and the weapons,” Foster ordered, and Jerry automatically looked at his own displays, as well as those of his men. A few were dark, and the Senior Chief ordered Boswell to reset the breakers.
As FT2 Boswell stood up and turned toward the breaker panel, a third explosion sounded, fainter than the first two. Jerry felt the vibrations and heard the rumble, and relaxed because it was so much weaker than the first two.
They weren’t prepared for the one that came next. It felt like the hammer—a giant’s maul—had hit the hull directly outside the torpedo room. Jerry only heard the beginning of the explosion; the ringing in his ears that followed was like church bells.
Boswell was thrown into the port torpedo stow and every man in the torpedo room was knocked to the deck. The lights failed again and sparks flew from cable junctions in the darkness before the circuit breakers cut the power.
* * * *
Breakout
The battle lanterns cut in again and Jerry waited for moment, taking inventory of his bodily appendages before attempting to stand up. He’d struck something—or someone—on the way down and he hurt. From the moans and complaints surrounding him, he wasn’t alone.
The phone talker had been knocked to the deck with the others, but he still had his headphones on and said, “Control wants all stations to report.”
Jerry stood up slowly, favoring a sore knee, and looked around. His division looked battered but unbloodied as they resumed their stations. Boswell reached the breaker panel. “Can’t reset it,” he reported. “No power to the panel.”
“Petty Officer Boyd, report no casualties, but no power either.” As Jerry gave the order, Foster staggered over to the breaker panel, double-checking Boswell. He nodded, confirming the diagnosis.
After he repeated Jerry’s message, Boyd said, “I can hear reports from back aft.” The talker shared the circuit with the other stations on the sub and could hear their reports to control. “There’s a short in the main switchboard and a steam leak in the engine room. There are injuries.”
Before Jerry could ask for more information, Boyd added, “The Captain wants you and Senior Chief Foster in control, ASAP.”
Jerry and Foster moved as fast as they could in the dim illumination up the two decks to control. Jerry smelled the smoke and ozone as he approached the space and coughed as he stepped into the murky darkness. The beams cast by the battle lanterns, instead of illuminating the control room just reflected off the smoke, forming cones of bright white vapor, while the rest of the space seemed pitch black in comparison.
His eyes smarting, Jerry looked away from the lights, feeling his way through the crowded space. He found Hardy and the XO near the chart table and threaded his way over to them.
“Reporting, sir.”
Hardy and the XO both turned to face him. “Two things, Mr. Mitchell. First”—Hardy pointed to one corner of the control room—”we’ve lost the Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel. Second, there is a problem in the engine room.”
Behind Jerry, Foster turned and headed for the panel, as Hardy continued talking to his division officer. The Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel was just that, an emergency backup that allowed the fire-control party to set a torpedo’s course, speed, depth, and enable run in the event the fire-control system was damaged. Unfortunately, the earlier fire in the torpedo room had disabled the receiving circuits, and the Emergency Preset Panel was the only way they could talk to a Mk48. With it gone, Memphis had no weapons capability at all.
As Foster approached the panel, maim lighting came back on and the panel, along with several other pieces of equipment, crackled to life. Showers of sparks flew wildly about and new smoke started pouting from cabinet vents.
“Trip the breaker!” Foster shouted. “Trip it!” Two ratings standing near the control room switchboard dove toward it. The two quickly turned a number of barrel switches and plunged the control room into darkness once again.
Slowly, cautiously, the technicians re-energized the equipment in the space, leaving the preset panel’s breaker open. Two other pieces of gear, the BPS-15 radar display and the TV repeater for the periscope, also sparked until their breakers were opened as well.
As they were bringing the control room’s power back on line, Hardy spoke. “Mr. Mitchell, as soon as you’ve got power in the torpedo room, launch the Manta. Lead the Russians away from Memphis by any means you can think of. We’re dead in the water right now, and will be until Mr. Ho secures the port main engine. We had a bad steam leak and even after we get propulsion, we’ll be noisy and slow. And with the preset panel gone, we can’t fight. Our only hope is to have them looking somewhere else.”
The control room intercom carried Ho’s voice. “Engineer, sir. We’re ready to answer bells, but only up to ahead standard. The best we’ll be able to make on the starboard main engine alone is twenty knots at full rpm. We can creep at five, tops. We’ve secured steam to the port main engine and that’s stopped the leak. It’s been isolated from the reduction gear so it won’t drag. We’re investigating the cause of the steam leak.”
Hardy nodded to Bair, who was standing next to the intercom. The XO answered, “All right Eng, thanks for the report. How are your guys holding up?”
“Final casualty count is four injured, three with burns and one with a broken ankle. I’m waiting for a report from the corpsman. I’ll pass the word to you as soon as I get it.”
“Understood,” Bair answered.
Ho added one final comment. “Sir, the plant took one hell of a beating. If we take many more knocks like that last one, we could lose a lot more than the port main engine.”
Hardy stepped up to the intercom. “Do your best, Mr. Ho. Without you, we don’t get home. Control out.” He turned back to Mitchell. “Get going.” His face softened and he said, “Get them away from my boat, mister.”
Jerry answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” as he left control and headed below. Foster was up to his elbows in the preset panel, calling for tools, but Jerry didn’t need the Senior Chief to launch the Manta.
They had already started the sequence by the time he got to the torpedo room. He rushed through the procedure, as familiar to him now as getting out of bed in the morning. By all his indications, the Manta had come through the attack without a scratch. There was one bad moment when Jerry fretted about how well the docking skirt and latches had weathered the shock, but the display showed them all releasing, and the Manta automatically lifted off and away from its dock.
With the UUV now clear, Jerry suddenly found himself at a complete loss about what to do next. He’d been so focused on the launch he hadn’t thought about tactics.
Lead them away from Memphis. All right. I can do that. He ordered the Manta to turn west, back toward the trench, and punched the speed to fifteen knots. He also enabled the Manta’s simulator mode. A set of transducers in the vehicle would emit the acoustic signature of a Los Angeles-class sub. The Manta wouldn’t be quiet at that speed, and combined with the simulator mode, he hoped it would attract the attention of the Russian pursuers.
To help get their attention, he also sent a command sending the Manta to shallow depth. The surface wake would show a live contact leaving the scene of their latest attack at a brisk pace. Hopefully, they’d be busy repositioning for another attack and wouldn’t notice Memphis creeping in the general direction of away.
But was it working? It had only taken a few moments to send the commands. How long before he knew if the Russians were fooled? He was afraid that the way they’d find out it wasn’t working was another battering.
He felt like waving a flag or broadcasting insulting Russian phrases. Instead, he told control what he’d done. Hardy came on the line. “I’m taking Memphis northeast at a creep and we’re hugging the bottom. Will you turn north once you’re in the trench?”
“Yessir. I’m going to stay noisy, drop a countermeasure if they attack, and then break away.”
“Approved, but don’t break away too quickly. I want them to have a solid contact, so that everybody is completely focused on you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry started to mention the range limit on the acoustic modem, but held his fire. Hardy knew about it and reminding him wouldn’t help. It was Jerry’s job to figure out what to do.
He checked the nav display and adjusted the Manta’s course slightly. He wanted it to pass through the buoy field Memphis had encountered. He also sent the Manta deeper, not because it would make him easier to find, but because that’s what a real sub would do.
He checked the battery gauge and tried to do the math. Fifteen knots wasn’t flat out, but it would burn more of the Manta’s battery endurance than he’d like. Every minute he spent at fifteen knots now was good for eight or ten at creep speed.
But dammit, he had to know if it was working or not? Where were those four patrol boats that had attacked them earlier? He requested control to ask sonar for their status.
“U-bay, sonar. We’re on the line with you now. The four boats are astern of us, maneuvering and pinging. Our guess is they’re executing a search pattern at the site of our last attack. We think those were S3V depth charges, by the way. There was no torpedo noise at all before the explosions. They’re dropped from an aircraft, probably a Bear or a May patrol plane. They’re also passive homing, so we’ve got to stay quiet.”
“Sonar, U-bay aye. And if the Manta makes too much noise, it will be an easy target for them.” Jerry then added, “Thanks for the update.”
Now centered in the trench, Jerry turned the Manta in a complete circle before heading north, trying to create a “knuckle” in the water. A mass of disturbed water, a knuckle could reflect active sonar pulses. Normally subs made gentle turns so they wouldn’t create a knuckle, but not this time. He’d hang lights on it if he could.
Jerry also reduced the Manta’s speed to five knots, both to save the battery and because that’s what a real sub would do.
“Conn, U-bay. How many of those depth charges does a plane carry?”
The control room talker said, “U-bay, conn. Wait one.” A minute later he relayed, “If depends on the sonobuoy and torpedo loadout. A Bear Foxtrot can carry up to twelve. A May can carry ten.”
“Conn, U-bay aye. Thanks.” And that’s per airplane. Wonderful.
Hardy came on again. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m turning Memphis to zero three zero now.”
“Yessir. How long will it take before we know if this is working or not?” Jerry hated to ask, but the question nagged at him.
“As long as they don’t attack Memphis, it’s working, mister. Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m sure you can make it work.”
Jerry was so surprised he didn’t answer. Hardy, encouraging him? Now he was really worried.
“Conn, sonar. More explosions to the west. They might be more ranging charges.” As sonar made its report, the Manta’s sonar display also showed the sound spike. It showed a detonation ahead and to starboard of the Manta. He fed the bearing from the Manta’s detection to control, where they plotted both lines on the chart.
The talker sounded almost happy. “U-Bay, conn. Plot confirms the explosions are in the trench, and the strength is right for an echo-ranging charge.”
Jerry felt relieved for Memphis, but paternal concern for the UUV. Anything that could hurt Memphis would kill the Manta very quickly, which would end its job as a decoy. It would also deprive the American taxpayers of several millions of dollars’ worth of high-tech prototype. And the wreckage would be in shallow water, easily recoverable.
Time to wiggle, he decided. Jerry turned the Manta toward the last explosion and changed his depth, bringing the Manta up. That should make it easier to distinguish from the seabed.
Another ranging charge showed up on the Manta’s display and sonar also reported the blast. This one was behind and to starboard, but Jerry turned the Manta to port, as if he was trying to get away from the spot. He also told the Manta to go deeper, but not all the way to the bottom.
A third charge followed in quick succession, this time ahead of the Manta, and Jerry increased speed to eight knots. The idea was to convince them they had a live target, but not to actually become one. And the longer it took, the better.
“U-bay, conn. The tracking party thinks the patrol boats are headed west, toward the trench and the Manta. The Captain’s increasing speed to six knots, but says you’re supposed to keep them busy as long as you can.”
“U-bay, conn aye.” A fourth charge exploded to the aft of the Manta, but close aboard, to judge by the signal strength on the display. He was trying to figure out which way to zig when the passive sonar picked up a new sound.
“Conn, sonar, I’ve got a torpedo in the water to our west!” Jerry had never seen a torpedo on the Manta’s passive display, but instantly agreed with the sonar operator’s call. It was a perfect drop from the Russians’ point of view, ahead and to port. As the torpedo turned to starboard to begin its search pattern, the Manta would be dead ahead.
Jerry told the Manta to release an ADC Mk 3 torpedo countermeasure, then kicked the UUV hard to port. He was already at eight knots, not enough to get out of the area quick enough, so he ordered the Manta to maximum, twenty knots, quickly computing how long he could head west across the trench at that speed.
His one advantage was the maneuverability of the Manta. It was as maneuverable as a torpedo, and if he could get behind the torpedo and stay there, the weapon would never pick him up. Of course, as soon as this one ran out of fuel, they’d drop another, but first he had to live through this one.
He watched the torpedo’s bearing on the Manta’s display, trying to guess its course and how far it was from the vehicle. As quickly as he could, Jerry slowed the UUV and turned it toward the torpedo, attempting to stay behind its seeker cone.
Along with the noise of the torpedo’s engine, he could also detect the active seeker, pinging at high frequency. The rate of the pinging was important, because as long as the pings were widely spaced, the weapon was in search mode. If the ping rate increased, that meant the torpedo had found something and was taking a harder look.
As Jerry maneuvered, he kept up a running commentary to control, telling them what the Manta was seeing and what he was planning. For the most part, control didn’t answer, aside from an occasional “U-bay, conn aye.”
For almost a minute, the bearing continued moving to the right and Jerry chased it, taking the Manta in almost a full circle. He tried to visualize the position of the two as they circled a common point. While he could see where the torpedo was, in relation to the Manta, he could only guess at where the torpedo was headed, which would help tell him where the seeker cone was—and whether or not he was in it.
Finally he seemed to catch up, the bearing to the torpedo changing less and less until he almost went past it and had to quickly correct, all the while dealing with the growing time lag as the Manta increased her distance from Memphis.
The torpedo bearing remained steady for a few moments, and Jerry saw that it was headed south, probably toward the countermeasure he’d dropped. Turning as tightly as he could, he commanded the Manta north again. Hopefully he could get some separation before it sorted out the decoy and went into a circular reattack search pattern.
North, always north. That’s what a real sub would do: try to reach the northern exit of the Kara Sea and get out of this geographic bear trap. He wanted the Russians to think that as well. And as long as he kept going north, he’d be running parallel with Memphis and wouldn’t have to worry about getting beyond control range. Still, the time lag was already a major factor.
The torpedo remained to the south, and Jerry heard it switch to a higher ping rate. The countermeasure had worked, then. Jerry adjusted the Manta’s depth, putting about one hundred and fifty feet between the UUV and the seabed. If they started echo-ranging again, he wanted to stand out from the bottom. He kept his speed low, at five knots.
It took five minutes for the weapon to run out of fuel. They couldn’t drop another weapon until the first torpedo stopped, and he used the time to get some distance behind the Manta. It was also another five minutes’ grace for Memphis as she headed northeast.
Jerry had expected them to start echo-ranging again, but the next sound he heard was another torpedo starting up—and close aboard, to judge from the signal strength. He quickly turned the Manta toward the weapon, hoping to get past it and behind it, as well as triggering another torpedo countermeasure.
They must have just taken the last drop point and figured how far he’d get at five knots. They’d come closer than he liked, and Jerry decided it was time to get out of Dodge. He said as much over the circuit and Hardy’s voice immediately said, “Agreed, as quickly as you can.”
Jerry instructed the Manta to terminate the simulator mode, cut the speed to creep, and dropped to the bottom. He’d grown to trust the Manta’s safety circuits and used them now as he sent the craft within ten feet of the bottom, far closer than Memphis could ever go. The torpedo’s seeker could distinguish the hull of a submarine from the seabed, but the Manta was much smaller, a hundredth the size of a nuclear attack boat. With any luck, the torpedo’s seeker would dismiss it as an echo from the seabed.
And Jerry headed south. He kept a careful eye on the nav display, because now Memphis and the UUV were heading away from each other.
He also watched the sonar display as the torpedo’s bearing remained firmly north, behind him. Whether the seeker had never spotted him or had been attracted by the countermeasure, it was still in search mode and seemed to have no idea where he was.
“Sonar, U-bay. I need to know if you see any sign of the Russians searching to the south of that last attack.”
“U-bay, sonar. We don’t hold any active sonars in your area, but the Manta’s passive arrays will know about it as soon as we do.”
Jerry had to agree with them. He needed more information. He’d love to know where the airplane or airplanes hunting them were, but Memphis didn’t dare put up a mast.
Jerry visualized the search radius of the torpedo and turned distance into time at five knots. The next two minutes seemed eternal and Jerry forced himself not to look at his watch. He stared at the sonar display instead and willed it to remain blank.
There was no sign of attack, pursuit, or even interest in the Manta’s location, and Jerry gratefully turned the UUV east, carefully managing its depth as it rose up the steep eastern wall of the trench. He almost felt like a soldier leaving a foxhole as he brought the Manta out of the trench onto the shallow seabed.
Memphis lay over six miles away, mostly to the east, and Jerry headed straight east at first, reluctant to do anything that would bring him closer to their Russian pursuers. The problem now was to rendezvous with Memphis. With the Manta and the sub both creeping, Jerry knew he’d never catch her. “Conn, U-bay, I need to speak to the Captain.”
“Yes, Mr. Mitchell,” Hardy said after a brief pause.
“Sir, I’d like permission to go to ten knots. At Memphis’ current speed, I’ll close in an hour and a half.”
“What’s your battery charge?”
“Twenty percent. I’m good for two hours at that speed.”
“And at that speed, if you pass through a buoy field, they’ll pick you up for sure,” Hardy observed.
“Sir, I can’t catch you at five knots.”
There was a short pause. “I’m turning Memphis due north and slowing to three knots. Turn to zero four five and increase speed to seven knots. We should rendezvous in two hours.”
Jerry made the course and speed changes. “Yes, sir, and thank you.” Jerry felt genuinely grateful. It would be easy for Hardy to abandon the Manta, claiming that the risk of pursuit was too great, but his solution would keep the two units covert and still get the UUV back.
Jerry watched as the Russians remained preoccupied to the southwest. Bull Horn sonars pounded the water over the trench and by the Novaya Zemlya coastline. An occasional series of explosive charges to both the northwest and southwest confirmed Jerry’s hopes that they had indeed lost contact with the Manta, and more importantly Memphis.
Two hours later the Manta rendezvoused with Memphis. Although there had never been a problem with the automated recovery sequence, Jerry sweated every step until the latches were engaged and the umbilical connected. Drained, he slipped out of his seat and headed slowly to the wardroom for something to drink. The XO said he’d meet him there to go over the tactics Jerry had used to break contact. “Better to get them down on paper while they’re still fresh in you head,” Bair said gleefully.
Fresh? Yeah, right. Jerry thought cynically. Let’s see, how can one expand “pop chaff and evade” to fill a couple of pages of the patrol report? Still, the Manta had successfully been used to bamboozle a very determined Russian ASW force and the U.S. Navy would demand to know how it was done—in detail. As he climbed the ladder up to forward compartment, middle level, Jerry fervently hoped that there would be no further need to launch the Manta again on this cruise.
* * * *
“Keep at it, Ivan,” Kirichenko encouraged his deputy. It had been three hours since there had been any trace of the American sub, or possibly submarines, he corrected himself. “They’re still there. They didn’t just vanish.”
“Yes, sir.” Admiral Ivan Sergetev tried to look determined, but couldn’t hide his disappointment. They had been so close to getting one of those arrogant trespassers that losing contact was a bitter pill to their morale. And the longer the Americans stayed lost, the greater the chance the Northern Fleet would never find them again.
“Concentrate on the second line now, but don’t stop using the first.” Kirichenko didn’t dwell on the details. Sergetev was a good tactician. He knew what to do.
“Yes, sir. I’ll find them.” On his second try, Sergetev sounded a little more confident.
Kirichenko left the situation room and headed for his office. He trusted his deputy, but not enough to bet his life on him. Keeping calm and appearing positive in front of his staff had taken every gram of his concentration. He’d need his staff’s support to back him up—-later.
The only good news so far was the absolute certainty that there was a submarine to be prosecuted. It had been repeatedly echo-ranged. Aircraft had seen its wake as it fled the scene of the attack. The Americans had deployed numerous countermeasures and the sounds from those devices had been recorded. Unfortunately, the submarine had been attacked several times without result.
There was no guarantee that the second line would catch the Americans. It was scattered, still forming. Like the first one, it was made up of units that had been out training or had been in a high state of readiness. There were precious few of those in the Northern Fleet.
The second line consisted of every unit that could reach the Kara Sea before the intruder reached international waters. Diplomatically, the Russians could make a case for attacking a submarine in the Kara Sea, even if it was outside the twelve-mile limit, by invoking hot pursuit. That would be harder, much harder, in the Barents or Norwegian seas.
So he’d have to have a reason to risk international condemnation. A strong one, one that represented a clear and present danger to the motherland. Easy to do if you’re not constrained by the truth. He started drafting a message.
His staff knew that the Americans had been operating close to the coast. What they didn’t know was that he’d received top secret, compartmented information from the Northern Fleet’s counterintelligence officer. A foreign agent with stolen codes had evaded the FSB and was trying to leave the country. His last known location was in the Arkhangel’sk Oblast. If he had somehow managed to get to Novaya Zemlya and was aboard that submarine, and that sub made it safely back to port, Russian military communications would be compromised. Even after the codes were changed, Western intelligence would still be able to read a decade’s worth of encrypted messages. The damage to Russian security would be grave. Extreme measures had to be taken to prevent this from happening.
* * * *