AEGIS instantly processed every bit of information within electronic range, notwithstanding the electronic countermeasures presented to it. The Soviets utilized jammers of their own, responding to search radar by returning dual or triple images where only one existed. As the Soviets came within range of the battle group, they launched their own anti-radiation missiles which homed in on search and fire-control radars.
Electronic warfare has little concern for blast effect— its basis is purely deception, the creation of countermeasures and countercountermeasures. Damage—and unimaginable loss of life—occurs as the result of a simple failure, the failure of a microchip, the failure of a circuit to open or to close according to design.
These thoughts coursed through Tom Carleton’s mind as he watched the scene develop in Yorktown’s CIC. AEGIS’s computer system faithfully recorded successes and failures faster than the human mind could assimilate them.
The initial hit on Yorktown did not seem overly serious at the time in comparison with what might have been damaged. The starboard Phalanx exploded a missile warhead an instant before it hit the ship. It was aft, just behind the number-two engine room, where damage could have been critical. Yet an explosion that close does inflict damage, and in this case, the explosive force tore into the hull at water level, opening up the generator room and damaging the number-three generator. Damage control isolated the area immediately.
When an electrical failure occurs on an AEGIS cruiser, there is a load-shedding feature that transmits power requirements to the remaining two generators. If one generator fails, the system sheds electrical demand by various sectors of the ship to avoid overload. In this case, Carleton noted with relief, there was only a momentary dimming of the AEGIS system before it continued normal operation. Those parts of the ship requiring electrical power would be quickly brought back on line through crossconnecting by the damage-control parties.
Yorktown continued on her way, steadily closing on the enemy forces, steadily managing the battle with her powerful computer.
The second hit, however, was more critical. This time there was no last-minute save by Phalanx. A cruise missile plunged into the bow, destroying the three upper sonar equipment rooms. Yorktown’s ability to detect submarines was lost in an instant, but this was not critical to the battle group; other ships could relay the ASW picture. Of greater import was the fire that the blast generated. Within moments, the high-temperature alarms went off in the magazines below the forward five-inch mount. Damage control reported to Carleton that they were unable to control the fires in time to save the magazines. He was forced to order them flooded.
It was at this stage that a quirk of luck, or nature, occurred that threatened to change the outcome of the battle. Though Kennedy’s battle group was sustaining heavy damage, Kennedy was still moving east toward the enemy surface force. The carrier, though still burning, could still recover aircraft—Yorktown’s AEGIS still controlled the defense.
A Soviet Alfa-class submarine, one of those that had been worrying Admiral Pratt for more than twenty-four hours, was the cause. They are the fastest and quietest of the Russian submarine armada. Their titanium hulls make sonar detection extremely difficult. They are the deepest diving submarine known and they are highly automated. This particular submarine, Odessa, had escaped contact more than thirty-six hours before. Diving deep, she avoided the infrared capability of the recon satellites. Finding security under a layer of extremely cold water that defied sonar detection, she cruised slowly and very quietly under Kennedy’s battle group.
Odessa’s captain was a brave man. He had no knowledge of what was taking place above him—only that the enemy was above, that his listening gear was so full of explosions that he could not differentiate targets, and that his operation order stated that a massive attack on the American battle group should now be under way. The only chance he had to make a contribution to the battle was to bring Odessa as close to the surface, and the battle, as possible. He brought his boat to as fast a speed as he could attain at a maximum up angle. His torpedo tubes were loaded, his men ready to fire the instant the submarine had a target. Perhaps the captain was too anxious or his diving officer’s attention was diverted by the action above. Whatever the cause, she broke the surface of the Mediterranean in the midst of the battle group like a whale breaching. American sonars had heard Odessa’s rush, but the act was so fast, so unexpected, so brash, that before they could react, Odessa had fired six torpedoes—four from her forward tubes, two from the stern tubes. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she dove. Again her captain attempted the impossible. Achieving a critical down angle, he combined speed and rapid flooding of his tanks to escape. It was dangerous. The extremes he exercised were beyond those in the submarine manual.
Odessa’s noisy dive was easily tracked by two destroyers to the rear of the carrier protecting Kennedy’s flank. They fired rocket-propelled torpedoes from their ASROC launchers well ahead of Odessa’s position. The submarine was faster, but the homing torpedoes had the lead time and she was an easy target. The submarine never came out of her crash dive to prove to her builders how much an Alfa-class submarine could exceed engineering standards. Two torpedoes fractured her pressure hull and Odessa continued on her last dive at full speed. Increasing water pressure ripped her into pieces, compartment by compartment.
On the surface, chaos ensued. Each ship was streaming its NIXIE decoys but Odessa had fired at the two major contacts that had appeared on her attack computer—Kennedy and Yorktown. Two of the torpedoes from Odessa’s forward tubes swerved slightly off course to attack the carrier’s decoys, but the others raced directly into Kennedy’s hull. The first struck aft, opening the after engine room to the sea. Fuel storage tanks ruptured, feeding the flames that erupted. Burst fire mains once again cut the water to the damage control parties on the hangar deck above.
The second torpedo hit below the carrier’s island, penetrating through the voids into the fuel trunks before exploding. The blast raised a fireball almost to Kennedy’s bridge. She was now operating on just her port engines, her speed cut drastically. Water engulfed electrical switchboards, and critical sections of the ship began to lose power.
Electricity had returned just moments before to Pratt’s flag plot when once again the power was lost. This time, smoke filtered through ventilating shafts into the darkened space. Nothing is initially so terrifying on a ship as darkness combined with smoke. In this case, Pratt’s flag plot was buried in the interior of the island. There were no ports to open. No matter where a hatch was opened, there would be only darkness punctuated by the smoke-narrowed beams of battle lanterns.
Kennedy’s captain called down to Pratt. “Admiral, we have fires out of control on the hangar deck from midships aft. Damage Control reports a danger to ammunition storage because they have no pressure in the watermains there. I’m flooding midships now to contain the fires in the engineering spaces.”
“How much time to return to full speed?”
“We’re not going to, Admiral. We’ve lost the starboard engines. Shafts are likely warped.” The captain hesitated. “Admiral, you may want to think about shifting your flag.” Pratt considered for a moment, then responded, “I’ll bring Yorktown alongside.”
There was a pause, then, “Admiral, perhaps you’d better come to the bridge. Yorktown appears to have taken a hit too. Can’t tell what it was. Too much smoke now.”
One of the stern torpedoes from Odessa had hit Yorktown.
For an unknown reason, the depth setting had been high.
It burst as it hit the hull at the waterline. The blast opened the number-one engine room to cascading seawater. The turbines, though they survived blast damage, were immediately shut down as the water rose toward them. Yorktown proceeded at reduced speed on her starboard shaft.
What had been missed initially on the first report to Carleton was the structural damage the explosion caused to the forward generator. The pumps were unable to keep up with the rising
water. Before the generator could be shut down, the water got in and the generator short-circuited, burning itself out. As the one remaining generator began to overload, it also began shedding power to various spaces.
The red lights dimmed in CIC. The hum of fans, previously unnoticed, attracted attention as their motors began to slow down. The interior communications speaker by Carleton’s place echoed into life. “Captain,” came the frantic voice of the engineering officer, “we’re down to one generator. I’ve got to cut off something up there. The AEGIS system’s drawing all the power.” His high-pitched voice cut through the silence of CIC.
“Not a chance.”
“Captain, if I don’t, I’m going to burn the son of a bitch up. Then you got nothing.”
Carleton was familiar with the tone of voice. The man was responding now to his training, following the damage-control book by the numbers. If you follow step one, then the following happens. Follow step two, such and such happens. That was fine, but only for exercises.
“What do you have to shut down to keep us going up here?”
“Practically everything, Captain—shut down the gun mounts, the missile launchers. Hell, I don’t even know if I can keep the starboard engines running if I concentrate on the electrical system.”
“Just keep turning things off until you’re safe.” All he really needed was AEGIS. Though his own magazines were getting low, there were still enough ships in the area. As long as AEGIS could keep them firing…
“Captain… I’m losing power here.” It was his CIC officer, his voice cracking. He hesitated, moving from one location to another, checking his instruments. He turned to Carleton, barely visible in the dimming red light. “We’re going to go out of automatic.” He spoke each word separately and distinctly, the fear of failure imminent.
Carleton hit the button on the IC communicator in front of him. “Cut everything,” he bellowed into the box. “Go dead in the water. I don’t give a shit what you do, but don’t cut us anymore up here.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Captain.” There was a pause, the sound of machinery in the background the only indication that the line was still open. “That’s it, sir. Losing way…”
A voice cut into Carleton’s thoughts from another speaker. “Captain. Bridge here. We’re losing steerageway. The compass is out of sync.” There was another hesitation. “Captain… we’ve lost everything up here.”
It was at that moment that Carleton recognized Dave Pratt’s voice above the disciplined commotion in CIC. The Admiral was requesting an assessment of casualties. Carleton responded directly himself, then Pratt asked: “Tom, have you still got full control with AEGIS?”
“Affirmative, Admiral, but we’re dead in the water for the time being. I have no idea if we’ll get a second generator back on line.”
“I’ll take my chances, Tom. I’ve lost the picture completely here. There’s a helo waiting for me on the flight deck now.”
Yorktown did have to use her engines briefly to maneuver enough to clear the smoke from her stern so that Dave Pratt could be lowered from the helo. With the missile damage and the fires still smoldering below, there was no way they could land.
The remainder of the Battle of the Mediterranean would be directed from a ship unable to maneuver.
SPITZBERGEN
Ryng found the going much easier in the shadows. There the snow was harder than the crystallized slush melted by the sun’s limited heat. In shadows, he slipped occasionally where ice had formed or where small, unseen projections caught his feet.
He did not look back. His one goal was to get to the other side of the peak before another helicopter came looking for the first one. If Harriers had flown in from the direction of the ocean, there was the possibility of help that way.
A new sound came to him as he neared the top. At first it was a low hum, steady, occasionally increasing in pitch. The closer he came to the peak, the louder, deeper, and more resonant it became. Whatever it might be, Ryng had little concern. Rather than frightening him, it seemed to draw him toward the peak, to what he was sure was freedom from the chase.
The last hundred yards he could see multicolored snow crystals caught in the sun’s rays as they swirled around the bare rock at the top. They were propelled by a steady wind rolling off the ocean and reaching a crescendo as it blew through the rock and ice formations to create that strange yet welcoming sound. Here the snow, constantly moving, was deeper and softer, and the last few yards were the most difficult as he struggled through the drifts.
From the top, he gazed out over an angry gray, white-capped ocean. The reverse of the long slope he had just climbed was much sharper; the snowfield swept down at an acute angle, and jagged rock outcroppings peered through a much thinner snow cover. The constant wind blew much of the snow on that side over the peak, to drift where Ryng now stood and eventually to add to the year-round glacier that he had climbed that day. Below, the surface was smoother and less steep, like the inside of a coffee cup.
Shielding his eyes with both hands, he slowly searched the horizon for any sign of life, even the smallest fishing boat, but nothing was apparent. Ryng shrugged to himself. What the hell—life had to be better down there than it had been here for the last nine or ten hours.
He was determining the best course down when a little puff of snow to one side caught his eye. With the steady blowing, it was a strange sight, a little geyser of white crystals leaping skyward for a moment, then being carried away. Everything else was so smoothly sculptured by the constant wind.
Then a second puff—this time beside his right leg. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ryng dove face first into the snow to his left, burrowing into the coldness.
A goddamn bullet! That’s what it was—a bullet. Christ, there was no warning sound, nothing to tell him what that first puff of snow was, what with the goddamned howling wind. He was lucky, just plain, half-assed lucky, that whoever had the gun was a lousy shot.
Ryng didn’t move until he knew where the other man was firing from. He waited thirty seconds, counting softly to himself to counter the thudding of his heart. Then with his head covered with snow, icy water trickling down his neck, he slowly raised his head, careful not to make a sudden move. His gaze began directly below, moving slowly up, stopping at each shadow or rocky outthrust to see if there was any movement. As his eyes reached near the top, he saw the source. Even prone in the snow, the black uniform stood out like a sore thumb.
Christ! Ryng cursed. There was no way that person could have gotten where he was—just about in line with me on the ridge—unless he’d gotten out of that helo. Always cover your tracks, Ryng thought. Always look over your shoulder. Never take anything for granted. This joker now doing target practice on you had to come from that copter—wrecked or not. Somehow he got out of that mess and kept right on at what he was supposed to do in the first place—make sure Bernie Ryng never screws with the Black Berets again!
Those guys are good, Bernie, the voice in the back of his head continued, good enough to almost blow someone like you right off a godforsaken, snow-covered mountain peak in the worst goddamned place you’ve ever seen. No one would ever know, during that split second before it was lights out, that the reason they finally got you was because you were stupid!
There was another puff of snow a couple of feet to his left. Christ, it was eerie—no damn sound at all, just little puffs of snow from a bullet that could blow his skull apart. The guy was shooting where he expected his quarry to be. Ryng knew there was no way he could be seen buried in the snow like this. For the first time since he’d covered himself with it, he realized how cold he was. Snow melted around his ears and down his neck, the wind adding to the chill. There was no way he was going to spend much time lying here. Before he knew it, he’d be too damn cold to move properly. He had no desire to lie there and feel the numbness overtake him. And knowing Ryng wasn’t armed, the other man wouldn’t waste much time waiting for him to surface.
R
yng began to roll through the snow in the direction of the ocean. Very cautiously, his arms and legs straight out, head down, he rolled. As he came to the edge on the reverse slope, he peered quickly back at his pursuer and saw a black-uniformed individual slogging through the heavier snow, an AK-74 slung from his right shoulder, one hand on the trigger guard. The left arm appeared to hang uselessly at his side.
As Ryng began to roll downhill faster, his arms and legs flailing helplessly, the Russian spotted him. Through clots of snow, Ryng saw the flame from the gun muzzle and knew the weapon must be in automatic. Only a lucky shot would get him now, he knew, as he increased speed.
Bang—pain in his shoulder. Was he hit? Ryng felt his body spin around, his feet heading downhill, and he realized that he’d hit one of those jagged rocks. No bullet, but he felt the warmth of blood from a tear in his shoulder. Then his feet hit another object and he felt his body surge forward in a somersault. Head over heels, he pitched downhill, out of control.
The raw snow ripped at his bare skin like sandpaper. He grazed off other rocks, unable to see or avoid anything in his path. Then, for a moment, he was airborne, shooting off a little precipice and dropping down onto a steep slope where the snow was shaded and hard. Here he slid even faster, this time on his back, head down, too fast to roll or see where he was headed.
Abruptly, he was out of the snow. Gravel and loose rock now ripped at his body, and he felt the shirt tearing off his back. A new sensation of pain rolled over him. Ryng knew he could not afford the luxury of allowing the pain to overwhelm him. As he skidded to a stop, his arms and legs flailed for any kind of grip that might give him the chance to roll onto his belly.
First Salvo Page 26
