Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  Ride it out.

  The three torpedoes chasing him were lightweight torpedoes, armed with one-sixth the explosive carried by a heavyweight. Vilyuchinsk was a double-hulled submarine, with the outer hull 3.5 meters away from the critical pressure hull in most areas, to handle situations like this.

  As the first torpedo homed on Vilyuchinsk, approaching from off its port bow, Pavlov braced for the explosion. It came seconds later, jolting the submarine, but not as severely as he expected. The men in the Central Command Post waited tensely for the report of flooding. But no report came. Pavlov breathed a sigh of relief. They’d weathered the first attack.

  There was no doubt the torpedo had torn a gaping hole in the outer hull, with twisted and mangled edges, but that was a small price to pay. Pavlov turned his attention to the next torpedo, this one approaching from starboard. The second jolt felt much like the first, and after a few tense seconds awaiting an emergency report that never came, Pavlov focused on the last torpedo. Vilyuchinsk had decreased speed by two knots; the jagged holes in the submarine’s outer hull were slowing it down. But that didn’t matter. Two knots weren’t going to make a difference.

  As the third torpedo approached, Pavlov realized the scenario was different. The first two torpedoes had hit Vilyuchinsk broadside, where the submarine had a full 3.5-meter separation between hulls. However, the third torpedo was approaching from astern, where the outer hull tapered in toward the pressure hull.

  “Steersman, hard right rudder!”

  Vilyuchinsk’s bow swung toward the torpedo, but it was too late. The third MK 54 detonated as it sensed the magnetic field from the guided missile submarine, and this time, the jolt was followed by an emergency report.

  “Flooding in Compartment Nine!”

  A hole had been blown in Vilyuchinsk’s pressure hull, and as water surged into the submarine, the lights flickered, indicating the electrical power grid had been shifted to the battery. They’d lost their electrical turbine generators, which meant propulsion would go next. As Pavlov’s Watch Officer tried frantically to ascertain the status of the Engine Room, Vilyuchinsk slowed, and the stern tilted downward.

  Pavlov turned to his Compensation Officer, who had lined up the drain pump to the Engine Room and was now blowing the submarine’s variable ballast overboard, increasing Vilyuchinsk’s buoyancy in an effort to offset the water rushing into the submarine.

  “Keep us level!” Pavlov ordered. If the submarine upended, all would be lost.

  The Compensation Officer opened the valves to Forward Ballast, flooding water back in. But the tank was only so big, and water was surging into the Engine Room faster than the drain pump pushed it back out. Vilyuchinsk’s stern continued sinking, and the submarine’s angle steadily increased to thirty, then forty degrees. At the same time, Vilyuchinsk was getting heavier. They sank through three hundred meters, then four hundred.

  Pavlov was again caught in a scenario with no good answer. Continue downward and the submarine would implode. Emergency Blow to the surface, and the Americans would sink them. Still, going up was a better prospect than down, and Pavlov gave the order.

  “Emergency Blow all main ballast tanks!”

  The Compensation Officer pulled the emergency levers, porting high-pressure air to the tanks.

  Water surged from the grates beneath the hull as it was displaced by air, but Pavlov had waited too long. Vilyuchinsk was tilted up at forty-five degrees and the air in the ballast tanks surged toward the front of each tank, making the bow of the submarine more buoyant than the stern. Vilyuchinsk tilted upward more rapidly, and once a bubble formed in the top of each ballast tank, the excess air spilled out the grates, leaving too much water inside.

  Pavlov and the men in the Central Command Post hung on to consoles and railings as the submarine tilted ninety degrees upward, and Pavlov knew they would not recover.

  Slowly, stern first, Vilyuchinsk sank into the ocean depths.

  81

  MOSCOW

  Foreign Minister Lavrov and the chief of the general staff, General Andropov, strode down the long Kremlin hallway toward the president’s office. After a knock on the president’s door and an acknowledgment from within, Andropov entered an office filled with the president’s staff, all with notepads in their hands. It wasn’t even 7 a.m., but it wasn’t often that two of the world’s major military powers went to war.

  Kalinin ordered the room cleared, and Minister Lavrov and General Andropov eased into their chairs opposite the president. Andropov tried to assess the president’s mood. Following the discovery of America’s attack on their forces in the Arabian Sea and Iran, Kalinin had been furious. He was a seasoned and normally unemotional politician, but he’d been rattled by America’s attack, and Andropov could not predict how he’d respond to the new information.

  “I have unsettling news, Mr. President. The Americans have disarmed the pipeline detonators. We activated over a dozen, and none blew. When we tried to discuss the problem with the detonator’s designer, we learned he was abducted from his villa a few days ago. The Federal Security Service,” Andropov said, referring to the domestic half of the former KGB, “was aware of this matter, but didn’t think it necessary to elevate it to our attention until now.”

  Kalinin replied, “He gave the Americans the master code?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Is there a way to override it?”

  “Not that we’re aware of.”

  Kalinin folded his hands across his waist and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. The Americans had broken one-half of Russia’s stranglehold on Western European energy and were trying to break the other.

  “How is the battle going?”

  “The outcome is still in doubt,” Andropov answered. “There won’t be much left of our surface combatants, but our submarines are having success. We’ve broken into the second tier of their anti-submarine screen and have damaged two of their aircraft carriers, knocking one out of commission. We’ve suffered a few submarine losses, but as best we can tell, we still have at least thirty-five submarines pressing the attack, while the American attack submarines have been reduced to around a dozen. We are going around the few that remain now; they cannot plug the holes.”

  Kalinin didn’t respond, and Andropov sensed he was considering ending the battle.

  “We cannot stop now,” Andropov said. “With most of our surface combatants heavily damaged or sunk, compared to only two American aircraft carriers damaged, we will emerge in far worse shape. However, our submarines are making progress and it’s still likely that we’ll sink the four American carriers or force them to withdraw.”

  Kalinin turned to his foreign minister. “If we are victorious and blockade the Persian Gulf, will that be enough to force the United States and NATO to capitulate in Ukraine and Lithuania?”

  “It’s possible. But I agree with General Andropov. It’s the only path forward. If we withdraw, we lose all leverage.”

  “Speaking of leverage,” Kalinin said, “where do we stand with India and China?”

  Lavrov replied, “We just received China’s answer, and we’ve been in discussions with India.” Lavrov explained China’s position, and after Kalinin provided his thoughts, Lavrov went on to say, “My opinion is the Indians are watching the battle unfold, waiting to commit to the side that pulls ahead.”

  Kalinin’s irritation bled through his words. “Sweeten the deal; whatever they ask for. We’ll sort out what we’ll really concede later. But tell the Indians they have one hour to join us. After that, our offer is void.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  As the meeting wound to a close, Kalinin asked, “Where is Minister Chernov? He should have returned from Sochi by now.”

  Andropov replied, “I was about to inform you.” He paused, uncertain how to deliver the news. Finally, he said, “Chernov won’t be returning.”

  “Why not?”

  Andropov relayed the details of Chernov’s death. When he
finished, Kalinin stared at him for a long moment.

  “Where is O’Connor?” he asked.

  “Gorev has her in custody at Chernov’s villa, awaiting your instructions.”

  Another long stare, then Kalinin nodded.

  82

  NEW DELHI, INDIA

  On the ground floor of Rashtrapati Bhavan, Indian President Deepak Madan stood at the fifteen-foot-tall arched window in his study, looking out over Mughal Gardens. With water canals, sandstone fountains, and over seventy seasonal flowers, including 159 varieties of roses, the gardens are considered by many to be the soul of the presidential palace. Madan remembered the first time he set eyes on the beautiful grounds. He had hoped the future of his country would be as bright and vibrant as the flowers in Mughal Gardens.

  In the last few days, however, a darkness had settled over Rashtrapati Bhavan and Mughal Gardens. The Russians, and now the Americans, were pressuring India to intervene in their conflict. A decision had to be made, and soon. Time was running out, like the proverbial sand in an hourglass, each grain representing the incentives offered by each country. He had discussed the matter with his National Security Council, and their advice was conflicting. Now, with the battle in the Indian Ocean reaching a climax, Madan knew he would be forced to decide.

  There was a knock on the door and his ministers of defense and external affairs, along with his national security advisor, entered. Madan motioned the men into upholstered chairs resting atop a handwoven Kashmir carpet. When he joined them, his minister of external affairs, Rahul Gupta, brought Madan up-to-date.

  “Russia has offered additional incentives and also given us an ultimatum. We have until eight a.m. to accept.”

  “And the Americans?”

  “They are awaiting our answer without further discourse.”

  Madan spent the next few minutes discussing the new Russian incentives, along with the choice to be made: become a Russian ally in this war, aid the Americans, or remain neutral. Of course, China’s response in the matter weighed heavily on his thoughts.

  After considering the options carefully, Madan made his decision.

  83

  USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

  “Brace for impact!”

  Captain David Randle gripped his chair tightly as he peered through the Bridge windows toward the incoming missiles. The Russian P-700 Granits were called Shipwreck missiles for good reason. A single missile could wreck an entire destroyer or cruiser, and if it hit Truman’s Island superstructure, where Randle was located, there would be nothing left.

  Through the open side windows of the Bridge, Randle heard his ship’s defensive systems engage. Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles streaked from their launchers, leaving trails of white smoke. A moment later, the three Phalanx CIWS Gatling guns engaged.

  Four more missiles hit Truman, the ship shuddering with each blast, and four more spires of black smoke rose skyward from the carrier’s port side, joining seven others.

  This attack on Truman brought the total to five. Five Russian guided missile submarines had approached close enough to launch their missiles at the task force’s carriers. Three of the four aircraft carriers had been hit, with only USS Eisenhower spared thus far. Bush was down hard, with fires raging inside the hangar bays. Reagan, on the other hand, despite taking additional missile impacts, was inching closer to resuming flight ops.

  That left two operable carriers, but two were sufficient for the remaining seventy Super Hornets. The task force had lost almost two-thirds of its fighter complement, but they had accomplished their mission. The Russian combat air patrol had been annihilated, and every Russian surface combatant had been sunk or heavily damaged. Only Pyotr Velikiy and Kuznetsov were putting up a fight now, and Kuznetsov could no longer support flight operations. The Russian surface Navy was in its death throes. Unfortunately, the Russian Submarine Force was not.

  Randle examined the horizon; the hazy gray dawn had given way to a spectacular day—a cloudless blue sky with moderate winds, blowing the columns of black smoke rising from three American carriers northward. On the Flight Deck below, two Super Hornets glided toward the bow catapults, preparing for another assault on the two remaining Russian surface combatants. Now that the Russian combat air patrol was nonexistent, the F/A-18 weapon mix had been changed, trading their air-to-air missiles for more anti-surface weapons. It wouldn’t be long before every Russian surface ship had a new, permanent berth on the bottom of the ocean.

  “Bridge, CDC.”

  Randle answered, “Captain.”

  “Captain, OPSO. We’re detecting activity from the Indian carriers.”

  Randle acknowledged the report, then switched one of the quad screens below the Bridge windows to the COP—Common Operational Picture. The three Indian aircraft carriers to the east, including their newest one allegedly on sea trials, had begun launching. Randle watched the yellow neutral icons accumulate on the screen as the Indian air wings assembled above the carriers. India was preparing to join the battle, and given there had been no official coordination between the American task force and Indian Navy, the scenario did not bode well.

  He shifted his radio to Strike, listening as the strike controllers in CDC vectored the combat air patrol to the east and launched all ready aircraft. On the Flight Deck, Aviation Ordnancemen hustled to the two F/A-18s on the bow catapults, swapping out their surface attack missiles with anti-air. It didn’t take long, and the two F/A-18s streaked forward as the bow catapults fired. Randle watched the two fighters turn east to join the rest of the CAP.

  As the three Indian fighter wings headed toward the American task force, Randle did the math. Seventy-two inbound tactical fighters opposed by thirty-two Super Hornets. The American aircraft were superior, but quality overcame only so much quantity. Additionally, although there were several cruisers and destroyers on the back side of the formation, the task force was lightly defended in that area compared to the front and flanks.

  Randle listened as the strike controllers recalled all aircraft headed toward the Russian surface combatants, ordering them back to Truman and Eisenhower to swap out their air-to-surface weapons with air-to-air. That would take time, unfortunately, during which the task force’s CAP of thirty-two fighters would have to suffice.

  * * *

  The battle unfolded quickly. The Indian aircraft closed within range of the task force’s protective screen of cruisers and destroyers, and the bulk of the seventy-two inbound aircraft launched their missiles: over two hundred inbound bogies.

  The Aegis Warfare Systems aboard the American ships performed admirably, but two dozen missiles made it through, striking the six destroyers and cruisers in that sector. Randle watched in dismay as three of the ships dropped off the grid, including the heavily armed cruiser Vicksburg. A review of the visual feed from that sector revealed black smoke billowing up from all six ships.

  The Indian aircraft launched a second volley of missiles, this time bypassing the damaged ships, their missiles headed toward Eisenhower. Twenty made it through. Luckily, the aircraft air-to-surface missiles were much smaller than Russian Shipwrecks, and Eisenhower survived. Unfortunately, the damage was severe enough to halt flight operations.

  Black smoke was now spiraling up from all four American carriers, with only Truman operable at the moment.

  84

  ARABIAN SEA

  On USS Truman’s Flight Deck, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston, call sign Samurai, waited in the cockpit of his F/A-18E Super Hornet. He’d lost count of how many times he’d returned to the carrier for rearming and refueling. To save time, Truman’s crew was hot pumping, refueling his jet with the engines still running, one at a time. Houston kept the port engine running while they refueled starboard, then they’d reverse the procedure for port. Meanwhile, Ordies were attaching more ordnance to his fighter, all air-to-air missiles this time, as he’d be heading out to engage the Indian air wings.

  Wisps of smoke occasionally drifted across the Flight Dec
k, partially obscuring his vision. Although most of the black smoke was pouring from the aircraft carrier’s port side, blowing away from the ship as it rose skyward, some leaked from the elevators on starboard as the crew battled the fires raging inside the ship. He had to give credit to Truman’s crew, keeping the aircraft carrier operational despite the extensive damage.

  Truman’s crew completed refueling and rearming Houston’s aircraft, and the yellow-shirted Shooter guided him toward CAT One, the starboard bow catapult. Houston pulled up beside his new wingman, Lieutenant Dave Hernandez, call sign TexMex, who had just dropped his launch bar into CAT Two. It was an ill omen for the Mexican from Texas. Houston had lost two wingmen already, one during the night and another one this morning. Perhaps the third time would be the charm.

  Houston dropped his launch bar into CAT One’s shuttle hook, and the Flight Deck crew verified his aircraft was ready for launch. The Shooter then lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Houston to kick in the afterburners. Houston pushed the throttles past the détente, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted. The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the deck, but not before Houston caught the reflection of the Rising Sun off the canopy of his aircraft.

  Thus far, Houston hadn’t needed the reflective tape affixed to his helmet, having made it back to Truman after each mission rather than splashing into the ocean. He hoped it wasn’t a premonition, catching the reflection just before takeoff. He didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter, however. The operator in the Catapult Control Station took his cue from the Shooter and the starboard catapult fired; six hundred pounds of steam sent Houston’s aircraft streaking toward Truman’s bow. As Houston climbed to ten thousand feet, TexMex pulled up alongside and both jets headed east.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before Houston and Hernandez reached the task force perimeter, joining what remained of the combat air patrol. The original thirty-two F/A-18s had engaged over twice that number of Indian fighters, and Samurai and TexMex brought the total number of F/A-18s aloft to twenty. Houston checked his AN/APG-79 radar display, noting four more aircraft on their way out, including a pair from Reagan. The heavily damaged carrier was back in business. That was good news, as there were another thirty-five Super Hornets returning from the assault on the Russian surface ships, and the Flight Deck crews could refuel and rearm them only so quickly.