With a certain reluctance on the part of a number of members of the State Committee for Defense, preliminary orders were transmitted to the Strategic Rocket Forces. Their hesitation was based on a mistrust of General Colonel Melekhin. He was not of the old crowd, like Keradin. Melekhin was young; he had advanced rapidly because of his political connections. Yet there was a concern among the older members that he was trigger happy—that he was willing to act possibly on his own rather than under their strict orders. They saw the Strategic Rocket Forces as a threat in itself, not as a weapon that would be placed in action as part of an overall scheme. Many of the older members envisioned the awful specter of retaliation. They saw this war simply as an opportunity to expand the Motherland’s boundaries, and they could not accept the idea of ICBMs raining down on their country. They would rely on Melekhin if it became absolutely necessary, but their final hope lay in the fact that General Keradin had yet to surface. His disappearance had created dissension and an inability to use the Strategic Rocket Forces as they had once anticipated.
With that in mind, Moscow determined that the final phase should commence in the Mediterranean slightly ahead of schedule. The American carrier battle groups had taken a beating, but they still retained the capability to defend themselves. The orders were given for the lead ships, with Kharkov, to open fire with their missiles on the perimeter defenses. Those would be the ASW ships under Admiral Pratt’s command which were already hard pressed by the persistence of Soviet missile submarines.
A cruise missile launched at a surface ship by a submarine or another surface ship can be a formidable weapon if properly employed. Skimming the surface of the ocean above the speed of sound, it is extremely difficult to track. Quite often, the first warning of its approach is given when its homing device locks on the targeted ship. By then, it is often too late to effect any defense other than the last-ditch one—Phalanx.
A signal was transmitted to the Soviet submarines. They were to surface to assist in the control of the first missiles. With midcourse guidance, the range of the missiles from the surface ships would be tripled. The Russians were concerned about the longer range of the Harpoon missiles aboard the American ships. Exposing their remaining submarines was a desperate move.
For those submarines, surfacing could be a deadly strategy. Their natural element was underneath the sea, and it was there that they enjoyed a true advantage. On the surface, they were simply slower, unwieldy ships no longer able to utilize secrecy as a major defense—they were fish out of water.
It was a surprise to Admiral Pratt’s beleaguered ASW ships and aircraft when the subsurface contacts they had been so intent on holding down to deny use of their missiles appeared on the surface. The purpose of this illogical exposure was not immediately evident. Fire-control solutions, whether with torpedoes, missiles, or even guns were executed with ease. The quarry was attacked and destroyed, one by one.
The purpose of these subs’ committing certain suicide was not apparent until missile-warning detectors were activated in Kennedy’s battle group. The Soviet missiles wreaked havoc with the perimeter force. It took little time for the Soviet submarines’ radars to lock on their targets, transmit the fire-control information to the missiles, and, if they had survived that long, to dive.
New guided-missile frigates like John Hall or Stephen Groves had little chance against the huge warheads. They were literally blown out of the water. Larger ships, Spruance-class destroyers like Caron or John Rodgers, survived the missiles, though severely damaged. But the combination of missiles and then torpedoes finished them.
Dave Pratt realized in Yorktown’s CIC that the two opposing forces—the Soviet subs and the American perimeter defense— were now neutralized. There would be little more contribution from them to either side. The Battle of the Mediterranean was drawing to a close. How it ended would be based on which surface force survived. If Nelson’s sweep to the south proved effective over the next hour, and the Soviet submarines in that area were prevented from launching missiles, it would come down to an old-fashioned faceoff between the main elements of two battle groups, just as had occurred generations before during the Second World War.
The undersea battle had run its course. The combatants in the air war had been exhausted.
ABOARD U.S.S. BRISCOE, HEADING NORTH TOWARD THE MAIN BATTLE GROUP
Wendell Nelson had been correct. The Russian submarines heading in his direction reversed course directly into the sweep line coordinated by Nicholson. It was a textbook execution, even more effective than the first one Nelson had demonstrated two days previously. The three destroyers and three frigates in Nicholson’s squadron each were flying helicopters. This doubled their force effectiveness, likely outnumbering the submarines they faced, and the helos were phantoms to the subs, appearing out of nowhere, unpredictably, when least anticipated.
The Soviet submarines’ speed advantage was negated by the tactics Nelson had refined back in Newport. Not one of the subs was able to gain time or position to fire its cruise missiles. It became an action of attrition. Over a forty-minute period, five submarines were sunk by homing torpedoes. At the same time, two of the three frigates, somewhat slower and unable to survive if even one shaft was damaged, were sunk.
As Briscoe approached from the rear of the battle, unrecognized by the desperate submarines, Nicholson took a torpedo forward. In a series of violent explosions, first in the magazine under her forward gun mount, then as flames consumed the warheads in her ASROC launcher, Nicholson was blown apart in sections. As flames swept the remainder of the ship, a final blast in her fuel tanks sent her to the bottom.
Nelson ordered Briscoe into range with her ASROC-launched torpedoes. He was positive they had caught one more submarine when a tremendous explosion rocked Briscoe. She had been detected after all. The torpedo had not been deterred by her decoys. Instead, it struck aft, and in a series of explosions, the ship lost steering gear and both screws. Helpless, Briscoe wallowed in the swells, flames sweeping into the after magazines. Damage control lost water pressure. Though her forward weapons were capable of continuing the fight, Briscoe could no longer maneuver. Fires, now out of control, soon swept through her electrical system.
Once again the confrontation had been fatal for both sides. Out of the force that Wendell Nelson had taken south for Admiral Pratt, two destroyers now turned north to rejoin the battle group. Nelson transferred to his third ship that day, and headed north aboard Samuel Eliot Morison, one of the few guided-missile frigates to survive.
Wendell Nelson found the last few rungs of the ladder to Morison’s bridge suddenly very steep. He’d never been aboard one of the little ships. Were they really built so oddly or was exhaustion sweeping over him?
Morison’s captain extended a welcoming hand as Nelson ambled slowly into the pilothouse. “I know this isn’t the type of luxury you’re used to…”
Nelson smiled wearily. “Captain, if this little fellow can stay afloat for the remainder of the day, that’s enough luxury for me.” He let the commanding officer’s hand go, sagging tiredly against the chart table. “You know I hate to admit it, but I didn’t even see the name on the fantail when you came alongside for me, or it just didn’t register.”
“She’s the Samuel Eliot Morison, sir.”
Nelson’s eyebrows rose for a second. Then he smiled faintly. He had read literally every word written by the famous naval historian Samuel Eliot Morison. Now he had been saved by the ship given the great man’s name. He stepped out on the bridge wing, leaning on the railing, and stared out at the horizon. Finally, he turned to the commanding officer, who had moved beside him. “I owe you one sometime, Captain, because I didn’t get your name either, and it’s one I want to remember.”
“Two days ago I was sure you were going to have me relieved. I was the one who argued so much with you at that commanding officers’ meeting about your new tactics. My name’s Bill Stritzler.”
Nelson smiled wanly. “It’s been a cou
ple of years for me since that meeting—or it seems like it. Did you execute those tactics?”
“Yes, sir. They worked beautifully—especially since we depend on our helos.”
“Any idea how many submarines you might have gotten?”
“I like to think we were involved in three of them.”
“Well, Bill, when we get back home, your penance for arguing with me that day will be to write a paper on your tactics. You see, I lost two ships in one day and you’ve come out smelling like a rose. Either you’re damn lucky or damn smart, but I think we might make a good team.” Nelson extended his hand.
Stritzler squeezed the proffered hand. “Were you ever a skeptic, sir?”
“Always.”
“I’d love to work with you, Captain.” He looked more closely at Nelson. “You look exhausted, sir. How about stealing a couple of hours in my bunk?”
“I had that in mind. And while I’m napping, why don’t you have some of your men paint a few submarines on the bridge wings like they used to do forty years ago. I think Admiral Pratt might like that when we join up.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know where Admiral Pratt is, sir.”
“Call me Nellie—Pratt does. Where is he, then?”
“We don’t know yet. Just before we made contact down here, he was shifting his flag from Kennedy—her fires were out of control.”
“See if you could find out for me.” Nelson yawned, then added, “I’ll take you up on that bunk now.”
Wendell Nelson did not sleep as long as he’d hoped. He came to slowly. Opening his eyes, he found Captain Stritzler shaking his shoulder. “Have you located Admiral Pratt?” he asked groggily.
“No, but I think I have something equally interesting down in the wardroom, if you’ll come with me. Some fellow with a gun claims to know you, and none of my people can get near him. He and some others were spotted in a raft a little while ago. He told us their plane was shot down. If you can talk with this guy,” Stritzler added as they descended the final ladder, “I think we’ll be even.”
The sight in the wardroom stopped Nelson cold. As he pushed through the door, the first person he saw was Henry Cobb, shirtless, bruised, his battered face fixed intently on a man who sat across from him. Cobb had a pistol in his hand aimed at the chest of this bedraggled man who stared helplessly down the barrel. The gun never wavered, nor did Cobb look up. An equally battered blonde girl was asleep on the couch at one end of the wardroom, covered by a blanket.
“He won’t talk to anyone, won’t give us the gun, won’t let us do anything with his prisoner. The girl was unconscious when we took them aboard. That one,” said Stritzler, pointing at Keradin, “doesn’t seem to understand us. The one with the gun kept asking us to get Pratt for him. We still haven’t located Admiral Pratt. When I mentioned your name, said you were a friend of Pratt’s, he said he’d speak with you.”
During Stritzler’s explanation, Cobb had never looked up. He remained in the same position, the gun unwavering. Then, without turning, he said in a monotone, “That’s right, I’ve got to talk with Pratt.”
Nelson stepped over to him, placing his hand on Cobb’s bare shoulder. “Is that Keradin, Hank?”
Cobb looked down at the black hand resting on his shoulder. He put his own over it and squeezed. “Yeah, Nellie, that’s him.” The gun in his hand began to shake. He gently rested it on the table. There was no reaction from Keradin. “Nellie, would you keep an eye on him for me? Can’t let him get away. We’ve come so far.” He looked up into Nelson’s face. “It’s been so long since I slept…”
“They’ll take good care of you here, Hank. They’ve done the same for me.”
“Wait a minute.” Cobb rose, half turning, his eyes searching the room. “Verra… where’s Verra?” He spotted the girl on the couch. Gesturing toward her, he said, “Without her, we wouldn’t have gotten Keradin. We’re a team, her and me. Never thought I’d say that—a team…” Then he looked back at Nelson, eyes widening. “Nellie, is there a doctor on board this thing? She’s got to be…”
An officer standing to one side said, “She’s all right, sir. She’s just sleeping now. Exhaustion.”
Cobb sat down beside her and began to stroke her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. He looked once more at Nelson. “You son of a bitch, Nellie, I never thought I’d be so happy to see you. Now, would you please get ahold of Dave Pratt?” He pointed at Keradin, who had fallen asleep upright in the chair.
Nelson turned to Captain Stritzler. “It’s time to break radio silence. Do anything you can to find Admiral Pratt. If you can’t, I know who to get to at NATO. If there’s a key to stopping this whole damn thing, it’s sitting right there.” He gestured toward the sleeping Keradin. “That’s what will stop them from the big launch.”
There was a strange balance between fear and confidence in both Washington and Moscow. Because the battle reports were no more accurate in their initial states than they were over four hundred years before at Lepanto—neither side had yet adjusted to the loss of their reconnaissance satellites—each remained confident. The fear was generated by the ready status of their ICBMs. Though they had reached this plateau of readiness in the past, never before had it been the culmination of a major battle, a decision that might create a winner and a loser.
The nuclear posturing that was part of peacetime bravado had degenerated into a realistic threat—perhaps a certainty. Washington was aware not only that the Strategic Rocket Forces were in a countdown, but also that the STAVKA had recommended this and the State Committee for Defense had so ordered it. The only alternative was to commence the same process, insuring that the Russians too understood that the posturing was over—that Washington was responding in kind.
For those in control in Washington who could not conceive of the final orders, these were frantic moments. Not only did they not know if General Keradin was dead or alive, or even if he remained in American custody, but they had no idea whether Admiral Pratt remained in command. He had left Kennedy, ostensibly to shift his flag to Yorktown. The latter was apparently afloat, for they knew AEGIS was still in control.
The safety of hours—those hours before the Russians concluded they had only one choice… those hours before the Americans concluded they must retaliate—had now become the uncertainty of minutes …
ABOARD U.S.S. YORKTOWN
The Harpoon missile has a range of sixty nautical miles. With more than five hundred pounds of high explosive in its warhead, it delivers a blast ten times that of a five-inch gun shell. It can wreak havoc on a large ship; it is devastating to a small one.
Admiral Konstantin’s missiles were not quite the match for the Harpoons in Pratt’s battle group. As the Soviet force raced at flank speed to close the range, their ships took hits that gradually cut down their firepower. Fifteen minutes after the Americans opened fire, it was finally returned, but with little authority.
The unseen battle beneath the sea was uncompromising. To those on the surface, only sonar reports of underwater explosions and submarines breaking up gave evidence of its intensity. Nor would a soul below ever witness the weapons of his own destruction. For an instant, seconds at most, it would suddenly become apparent to each man that there was no longer a chance to outmaneuver the torpedo bearing in on his metal coffin. There would be an explosion and the submarine would careen downward. For those who survived the blast or the water that poured under tremendous pressure into shattered compartments, perhaps the lights would blink out one by one or the air would gradually fail. Then there would be the sound of the hull collapsing, eggshell brittle against the increasing pressure as the sub spiraled deeper, until there was nothing.
Few of these hunter-killers survived the day. In the confines of the Mediterranean, their presence was known and expected by their opposite numbers. They neutralized each other. Their fate would be noted only when they failed to report.
The concluding stage of the Battle of the Mediterranean was fought by the
Americans in a unique way. Because it was an electronic war, the key to victory for NATO lay in the wizardry of Yorktown’s AEGIS system. But Yorktown was dead in the water, immobilized so that her remaining electrical power was marshaled to run AEGIS. While she floated in the Mediterranean, moved only by the vagaries of the sea current, rolling with the gentle swells like a sailboat, she still controlled the entire battle for those ships that surged ahead of her to meet the Russian surface force.
Though Yorktown’s sonar was inoperative, she received input from other ships, her computers recording the locations of those subs that still survived, assigning ships to prosecute those that threatened the group. Though she could not fire a missile in her own defense, she searched out and evaluated every threat still in the air, controlling the weapons of the ships that fired upon those threats; and though she could not place herself in the forefront of the battle, she protected her ships out front, bringing down the attacking missiles by controlling their weapons.
And of even greater note was the fact that the Admiral who controlled the battle defied tradition by remaining to the rear, choosing to stay with the undefended ship that was so critical to the success or failure of his mission. While generations of admirals had led their fleets into battle, accepting the inherent risks in the front of the battle line, Admiral Pratt took an even greater risk by remaining with that ship which would become the primary target.
Admiral Konstantin realized even before the first missiles were launched that he must get Yorktown at all costs. It was now his one remaining opportunity. He was unaware that the cruiser lay thirty miles astern of the attacking force, and he initially searched for his target amidst the oncoming ships. Perhaps that was what gave the Americans the edge—in a war of milliseconds, they gained minutes, minutes that allowed Yorktown to protect the battle group from the Soviet missile salvo.
First Salvo Page 28
