Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  Markov smiled. He’d only sunk one of his priority targets — probably an amphibious ship — but once past the screen, he could clear the area and snorkel, recharging his batteries. He still had plenty of weapons, and with a full charge he could make another attack.

  He moved back to the plot table and started to estimate the maneuvers he would need to make. Assuming about six hours to motor clear at three knots, while the task force continued to the north…

  ABOARD BRAVO SIX

  The SH-3H Sea King hovered low, its rotor wash churning the sea into a bubbling cauldron. A cable hung from under the helicopter, stretching down into the water.

  In the Sea King’s cockpit, the pilot clicked his mike. “All right, Tommy. Activate the pinger. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  The petty officer in charge of Bravo Six’s sonar gear reached out and flipped a single switch — activating the dipping sonar dangling thirty meters under the water.

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  “Comrade Captain! Active sonar on the port bow. Very strong.” The plotter’s voice climbed in pitch.

  “Damn it! Release a decoy! Right full rudder.” Markov looked at the charge meter and tried to make a fast calculation. How much battery power could he spare? Not much. He sighed and issued the order. “Increase speed to ten knots.”

  WHANNNG! A sharp explosion rocked the sub’s hull from side to side. Markov felt the shock and automatically adjusted for it, flexing his knees. The lights flickered and fragments of the compartment’s insulation drifted down onto the plot table.

  It was a depth-charge attack, close by. No warnings this time. “All compartments report damage.”

  He was just starting to receive reports when the second salvo came in, with a third seconds behind. This time the Control Room lights went out and did not come on again. In the darkness he could hear men shouting orders and he spoke to those nearby, calming them.

  His first lieutenant’s voice cut through the confusion. “Maneuvering room reports one of the shafts refuses to turn. Also, there is flooding in the crew’s quarters.”

  Shit. Markov couldn’t see the plot in this blackness, but his head held the known elements of the situation Dribinov faced. “Right full rudder. Release another decoy. Put all power into the remaining screw. Turn off all but emergency equipment.” He coughed in the dust-choked air. “And get the damned emergency lights rigged in here.”

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  “We got good hits on those attacks, sir. It’s hard for him to dodge in this shallow water.” The ASW officer was cool even at the climax of the prosecution. His earlier case of nerves hadn’t prevented him from vectoring in several helicopters to attack the Soviet sub in rapid succession, and Brown was making a mental note about a medal.

  “What’s he doing now?” Brown wasn’t confident that depth charges alone could kill the sub. It was almost impossible to get a direct hit with them. So instead of the simple deadly impact of a torpedo warhead, the Tango out there was being hammered by a series of shock waves from near misses. Or so they hoped. It was difficult to get good damage assessment amid all the roiled water left by the depth-charge explosions.

  The ASW officer listened on his radio circuit and made some minor adjustments to his display. “Bravo Three and Five both have good contact with the Sov boat. He’s turning right, moving at about ten knots.” The officer paused. “That’s kind of slow for a Tango trying to evade attack, Admiral. We may have hurt him pretty bad.”

  “All right, hit him again. Don’t give that asshole an inch.” Confident that the attack on the sub was in good hands, Brown turned his attention to the gravely damaged Duncan. He wasn’t going to lose another ship. Not if he could help it, at any rate.

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  The battery meter was unreadable in the dim red light thrown by the emergency lamps, but Markov knew what it must show. With less than ten percent of his charge and one shaft gone, there were few options left. He hoped to merge with the sounds made by the damaged American ship and then break away to the west. Dribinov’s flooding was contained in the crew’s quarters, and if the engineers could find some way to repair the shaft…

  WHANNNG! WHANNGGG! Two more explosions, both to port. Markov felt the shock, and again the hull rocked to starboard and then back to port. More ominously, the boat’s trim was off. She was down by the bow. Dribinov was angling downward toward the muddy bottom of the Yellow Sea.

  “Sir, the torpedo room doesn’t answer!

  Markov closed his eyes. That last depth-charge attack must have ruptured the pressure hull right over the torpedo room. He closed his eyes, trying to shut away images of the men now drowning amid their weapons. “Blow the forward ballast tank. We have to compensate for the flooding.”

  The hissing release of supercompressed air brought the Dribinov’s bow up, but only halfway.

  WHANNG! Another explosion. Not as violent, but still jarring. Markov knew it was over. The Americans had plenty of depth charges, and he was out of everything — time, power, and most importantly, luck.

  He stumbled forward to where his first lieutenant stood braced against the deck’s tilt. “Blow all ballast tanks, Dimitri. We will surface.” He raised his voice, addressing every man in the Control Room. “Prepare to implement the destruction bill. We won’t give the Americans any prizes.”

  Koloskov grabbed Markov’s arm, the fear evident on his face. “Captain! Remember our orders from Moscow. We must not allow the Americans to learn of our involvement. We must escape.”

  Markov shoved the man away, unworried about any reports he might file. The odds were against either of them surviving long enough for Koloskov to retaliate.

  “Listen to that, you idiot!” He jerked a thumb toward the hull. The deep thrum made by an approaching destroyer’s screws was clearly audible above them. “The only way we’ll escape capture is to let them kill us. Is that what you want? Do you want to suffocate inside an iron coffin on the bottom of the sea?”

  Koloskov stared at his captain, struck speechless with fear. Then he turned away and retched, fouling the Dribinov’s littered deck.

  Markov ignored him and wheeled to the rest of the Control Room crew. “You heard my order. Surface!”

  ABOARD USS O’BRIEN

  “Sir, after lookout reports a submarine surfacing!” Keegan’s bellow rang across the bridge. Levi had just ordered the whaleboat launched and had been thinking about what should go in the second load for the Duncan. Now those thoughts vanished.

  He ran across to the O’Brien’s port side and grimaced as he saw the Soviet submarine’s battered sail and hull lurch up out of the water. The son of a bitch was surrendering.

  Another destroyer was already racing toward the enemy boat at flank speed, its guns trained on the crippled vessel. The onrushing destroyer’s five-inch barked, throwing a shell across the Tango’s bows to let it know that the slightest misstep would end in its destruction.

  Men started to appear on the submarine’s sail and inflatable boats were thrown on the water. Levi suddenly realized what had happened and started grinning. With survivors and photographs, the Russians were going to have some explaining to do.

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  Admiral Brown was speaking into the scrambler phone again. “No, George, they scuttled as soon as their people were off. Explosive charges. We’ve marked the spot, but we’ll have to wait awhile to try to raise it. It’s the middle of winter and the middle of a war zone.”

  The gravelly voice of Admiral George Simons, CINCPAC, rasped in his ear. “I understand, Tom. Now what about your own losses? Can still you carry out the mission?”

  Brown didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely, sir. Duncan is out of action, but I’m having her towed home by another frigate. We lost a lot of people aboard the San Bernadino, but that’s just made my crews eager to take some scalps of their own.”

  Simons sounded relieved. “That’s good news, Tom. I’ll relay your report to
the Joint Chiefs for their consideration. In the meantime, I’m authorizing you to take whatever measures you deem necessary to safeguard your command — up to, but not including, nuclear release. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, sir.”

  “All right then, Admiral. I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Brown listened as the transmission from PacFleet HQ in Hawaii ended in a series of clicks and a low hum.

  He hung up the phone and called to his chief of staff. “Jim. Effective immediately, extend surface and air surveillance out to three hundred miles.

  Turning to the Constellation’s air group commander, he asked, “CAG, do you still have Tomcats bird-dogging the Russian AWACS plane?”

  The CAG looked puzzled. “Of course, Admiral.”

  “Shoot him out of the sky.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The CAG picked up a phone and started issuing orders to the fighters now lazily orbiting with the Russian radar plane.

  He paused, listening to the murmurs sweeping through the Flag Plot. “Admiral Simons has put the Pacific Fleet on war alert. Let me be very clear about this, gentlemen. One more incident like this last one, and we’ll begin unrestricted offensive operations against the Red Navy and Air Force. We’ll start hitting the Soviets where they live.”

  The Second Korean War had just escalated.

  CHAPTER 41

  Thunderbolt

  JANUARY 15 — OFF THE SOVIET NORTH PACIFIC COAST

  The port of Petropavlovsk sat on the eastern coast of the Kamchatka Peninsula. Over thirty-six hundred miles from Moscow, it was so remote that all communication with the area was by air or sea. The region was unpopulated and barren and was located in the same arctic latitude as the Aleutian Islands. On the Siberian coast, good harbors were hard to find.

  Petropavlovsk was also the Soviet Pacific Fleet’s main submarine base. Almost all of its ballistic missile submarines, many of its nuclear attack submarines, their support vessels, and numerous other naval units were based there.

  One of the few Soviet ports that opened directly onto a major ocean, it allowed ships to sortie without having to go through a landlocked passage or hostile strait. And that gave the Soviets a good reason for putting up with the remote location, high cost, and terrible weather.

  ABOARD USS DRUM — OFF PETROPAVLOVSK

  Captain Donald Manriquez tried to remember how important the base was as he fought the weather to maneuver his Sturgeon-class nuclear submarine, USS Drum, into a new surveillance position. His orders were explicit and simple. He and Drum were to monitor traffic in and out of this major Soviet naval base. If it exceeded normal levels, he was to notify Commander Submarines Pacific, COMSUBPAC, immediately.

  So far, they had been loitering off Petropavlovsk for almost a week, and they’d met with a fair amount of success. In this case, success was a combination of not being seen, being in the right spot to count passing traffic, and hopefully, not seeing the massive surge of Soviet ships and subs that might signal World War Three.

  “In position, Captain.” His executive officer, “Boomer” Adams, was navigating while they looked for a spot where the currents would not be quite so unpredictable.

  “Very well, slow to three knots.” By maintaining just enough speed to control its course, the Drum minimized its noise signature, and that reduced the chance of its being detected.

  The storm overhead was both a help and a hindrance. Its ten-foot waves and twenty-knot winds generated noise — noise that would interfere with any Soviet passive sonars listening for the submarine. Looking for the Drum that way would be sort of like trying to hear a cat burglar in a boiler factory.

  The problem was that Drum’s own passive sonars were also degraded. Luckily most of the Russian stuff was noisier than they were. Even so, the bad acoustical conditions meant that Manriquez and his crew had to get in close to hear anything. They were outside the twelve-mile limit, but just barely.

  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 a
lready 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.