The computer-generated curve drawn through the contact’s previous positions was a straight line north, a curving turn some fifty meters in diameter, then a straight line to the south.
Peng stood up abruptly and reached for a phone.
While he waited, he caught sight of Sai’s inquiring look.
“It’s a submarine,” Peng said quietly.
* * *
The phone to the control-room periscope stand buzzed. Murphy grabbed it.
“Captain.”
“Radio, sir. The SITREP is ready to send. Request the Bigmouth antenna.”
“Captain, aye, wait.” Murphy tapped the shoulder of the officer on the periscope. Lieutenant Commander Greg Tarkowski.
“Let me look.”
The world outside was getting lighter with dawn only fifteen minutes away. The situation report needed to get out before the sun rose or the antenna exposure during daylight could risk detection. Murphy did a quick circle in low power, seeing the world at a distance, then engaged high power with the right periscope grip. The shore, only a few thousand yards away, jumped suddenly close, as if he were standing, wading in the water. Not a soul was visible in the shabby buildings crowded together along the shoreline.
Murphy turned the scope over to Tarkowski.
“Radio, Captain,” Murphy said, tilting his head toward the overhead where the Conn Open Mike microphone was nestled among the valves and pipes and cables.
“Prepare to transmit.” Murphy looked at Tarkowski pressed up against the scope.
“Raise the Bigmouth and transmit the SITREP.”
Tarkowski acknowledged. Twenty-five feet above them, from the aft part of the sail, the Bigmouth antenna raised steadily upward, the top of the mast breaking the surface. The pole continued rising out of the sail, rising steadily higher until it towered ten feet above the top of the periscope, fat as well as tall, over a foot in diameter.
The transmission began, a ten-second burst to the satellite overhead, the text of the message a summary of all the Chinese communications received since the Tampa had arrived onstation. As the Bigmouth antenna was lowered back into the sail. Murphy felt at once relieved and apprehensive. Relieved because the SITREP was out and the antenna was down. Apprehensive because the sun was rising, exposing the ship to a greater chance of detection, and because the transmission might have given them away to an alert surveillance crew ashore. But for the next four weeks, or until called back by the Pentagon, this SPEC-OP would continue, and Tampa would remain at risk, spying on the Chinese.
HANGU, TIANJIN MUNICIPALITY, BEIJING TO MILITARY REGION HANGU
PLA NAVAL AIR FORCE STATION
0530 LOCAL TIME/2130 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
Commander Yen Chi-tzu maneuvered the heavy airplane to the end of the runway and coaxed the old turbines to full power, his eye on the number-three engine tachometer and oil-pressure indicator. That engine would fall off the airplane someday, he was convinced, if the maintenance technicians continued to neglect it. Still, other than some vibrations, it came uncomplainingly up to twenty-four thousand RPM.
The big four-engined jet, an ancient British-built Nimrod antisubmarine patrol craft, lifted off the runway and headed south toward the point the Dashentang radar station had detected a suspicious contact. It was undoubtedly a false contact, Yen thought, but he didn’t mind. Better to be flying than cooped up in the ready building, trying to sleep, waiting for word about the encroaching White Army.
It did not take long to maneuver the plane over the water east of Beitang and cruise over the supposed path of the radar contact. The sun was rising as Yen approached the point in the bay where the spy boat or submarine was suspected. Yen, as he was trained, flew east of the intercept point so that he would be up sun of the contact. As he approached the intercept point, still a mile away, he thought he saw something.
He flew toward it, keeping it down-sun, and now as the plane closed the contact he blinked hard, not quite believing.
It was a periscope. No doubt. Yen keyed the radio button on the control yoke and called the contact report back to Dashentang, then flew back around, alerting the crew to prepare the load he was about to drop into the sea.
USS TAMPA
“Conn, Sonar,” Murphy’s earphone crackled, “we’re getting aircraft engines, close contact.”
“Air search!” Murphy called to Officer of the Deck Tarkowski. Tarkowski flipped his left wrist down, scanning his view upward, rotating the scope rapidly.
“Goddamn,” Tarkowski said.
“Mark on top! Looks like a P-3. Dipping scope.”
Tarkowski snapped up the grips and rotated the hydraulic control ring, and the periscope dropped into the well, coming down slowly, slowly.
“Conn, Sonar, the aircraft is still close, high-bearing rate. It’s circling us.”
“Get us out of here, course east,” Murphy ordered.
“Ten knots.”
“Helm, all ahead two thirds,” Tarkowski called to the helmsman at the control panel.
“Left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course east.”
“Station the section tracking team, OOD, and restart the port turbine generator. Start up the port main engine and shift propulsion to both mains.”
“Aye, sir, station the section tracking team and restart the port engine room The OOD reached for a phone and began barking into it.
“Conn, Sonar,” Murphy’s headset intoned, “splashes in the water up our port side. Sonobuoys, sir … confirmed. Sonobuoys, bearing zero four zero.”
The aircraft was dropping buoys into the water, each one a listening device with a portable radio, listening for them to drive by and nailing their position.
Prelude to a possible torpedo attack. Murphy thought.
The standard way of dealing with a sonobuoy volley was to get away from it and change course and speed, to zig, so that the aircraft above couldn’t predict his next position. He figured if the next round of buoys found nothing the aircraft would have lost them.
“I have the conn,” Murphy said.
“All ahead standard.
OOD, plot the splash, mark range fifteen hundred yards.”
“Sonar, Conn, we have another volley of sonobuoys, this time to starboard. He’s trying to box us in.”
The eerie sound of sonar pulses came through the hull, louder than the background noises of the ventilation fans and the gyro. Sean Murphy’s stomach filled with bile as an ugly thought filled his head.
We’re caught.
CHAPTER 4
WEDNESDAY, 8 MAY
2155 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
GO HAD BAY EIGHT MILES EAST OF DAGU POINT USS TAMPA
0555 BEIJING TIME
Commander Sean Murphy stood on the periscope stand looking at the traces on the sonar-repeater monitor, covered now with the streaks of broadband noise from the aircraft above, the curling lines showing that the plane was orbiting the Tampa’s position, keeping up with it. They were deeper now, as deep as the forty fathom channel depth allowed, making the top of the sail over a hundred feet beneath the surface. Still, it felt to Murphy like he was trapped in a tiny bathtub.
Murphy glanced aft of the periscope stand to the navigation chart, which showed their past track. The pencil line leading to their present position was a serpentine path, the result of Murphy’s speed changes and rudder orders, his attempt to wiggle on the way out of the bay to make the aircraft’s firecontrol solution more difficult. But the zigzagging was costing them precious time. Murphy longed to order up maximum speed, all ahead flank, which would give them forty knots, if they could control the ship in the shallow water at that speed. But at flank the ship’s wake in the shallow flat-bottomed bay would be so violent that the rooster tail from it would give their position away. Even so, despite Murphy’s evasive maneuvers, the plane stayed with them, never seeming to run out of sonobuoys, whose odd wailing noise in the water sent shivers down Murphy’s spine. At least the bastard hadn’t let loose with a torpedo, he tho
ught, as his headset clicked, prelude to another report from the chief sonarman.
“Conn, Sonar, we have multiple diesel engine startups, one probable gas turbine engine startup and what sound like surface-ship screws bearing two seven eight.
At least four contacts. Designate Sierra One through Four.”
“Sonar, Captain,” Murphy said into his boom microphone, “do you have a classification on the contacts?”
“Yes sir. Contacts are all surface vessels. Warships.”
“Damnit,” Murphy muttered. The three destroyers and one of the patrol boats at Xingang must have gotten underway after a radio call from the aircraft, which meant the mainland knew he was here.
“Sonar, designate Sierra One through Four as Targets One through Four respectively.”
“Sir, the surface vessels are now making way at maximum revolutions, estimated speed, thirty-five knots.”
“Starting from Xingang, how long until they intercept our track?”
Tarkowski crouched over the aft end of the conn at the navigation plot table, grabbing the table’s dividers and a time-motion slide rule.
“Wait one. Captain,” he said, manipulating the circular slide rule in three rapid motions.
“Eighteen minutes, sir.”
“Conn, Sonar,” the chief in sonar called over the control room circuit, “we’re getting active sonar from Target Two, bearing two eight four. The pulse rate is set for long range.”
Murphy felt Tarkowski’s expectant gaze. What are you going to do now? it said. And what are you going to do to safeguard the one hundred and forty men aboard … Murphy stepped off the conn and leaned over the Pos One console at the attack center, where the Junior Officer of the
Deck, Lieutenant John Colson, sat adjusting the computer’s assumed target-parameters-the distance to the targets and their speed and course, which together formed the target “solution.” Colson’s solution showed the contacts on an intercept course, still closing at thirty-five knots. Murphy looked over at Tarkowski who stood at his right shoulder, likewise fixed on the console.
“Looks like they’ve got a lock on our position,” Murphy said.
“The aircraft, sir, that bastard had us dead-on with his sonobuoys.”
“He’ll run out sooner or later, then we can move off to the north or south—”
“No layer to hide under here, sir. I’d guess if the airplane runs out of buoys another will replace him on station.”
“How long to intercept, Colson?”
“Fourteen minutes, sir.”
Obviously running for the bay entrance would not work — at their present speed, or even at maximum speed, the Lushun/Penglai Gap, the entrance to the Korean Bay, was hours away, Murphy realized. Getting detected was bad enough. Letting the P.L.A navy direct weapons at them would not happen, not while he was in command. He turned to Tarkowski.
“XO,” Murphy said, using his acting title intentionally, “we’re going to try something … We’ll maintain this course and speed until the next pass by the aircraft. When he drops the sonobuoys we’ll clear datum from the buoys with the same course and as soon as we’re outside fifteen hundred yards we’ll turn to the northeast and head up toward Qinhuangdao. They won’t expect us to diverge that far away from a base course leading out of the bay.” He hoped.
“With luck the plane’ll continue east and try to drop his next load of sonobuoys at our next expected position. If it works he’ll run out of sonobuoys and we get out with our necks. We keep going to the north of the bay and hide until the surface force gives up and goes home. If that doesn’t work and the plane keeps us nailed down with sonobuoys we’ll try to keep him guessing with course changes. The key is that airplane. The surface force alone, active sonar or not, is never going to get us. Once we ditch that plane we’re out of here. What do you think, XO?”
“I think, sir, he’s on us like white on rice. I wonder if he’s tracking us on magnetic anomaly between sonobuoy drops. He’s just too damned dead-on with those things. And if he runs out of sonobuoys he might just decide to drop a few torpedoes on us.”
“He’d have done that already if he had them onboard.”
Murphy sounded more certain than he was.
Tarkowski nodded and peered at the sonar-repeater console. The plane was nowhere to be seen. Murphy and Tarkowski waited, neither speaking until finally Tarkowski glanced at the Pos One display.
“Eight minutes to intercept. Captain. If the plane doesn’t drop a load in another sixty seconds we should be turning to the north to evade the surface task force.”
The chronometer’s minutes clicked by. In spite of the three air conditioners aft blowing frigid air into the room to help cool the electronics, the space had grown airless and hot. Finally, Murphy’s headset clicked.
“Conn, Sonar, aircraft approaching from the port side … we’ve got a splash bearing three five five … sonobuoys going active now.”
Sonar’s report was redundant with the splashes audible through the hull. Now the active sonar from the buoys began, the wailing whistles an eerie reminder that the Tampa might soon be under attack.
“XO, plot the distance to the splash and mark range one-five-hundred.”
“Aye, sir,” Tarkowski said, leaning over the tactical geographic plot board. Three minutes later Tarkowski called the range at fifteen hundred.
“Helm, all ahead full, left full rudder, steady course zero four zero. Mark speed twenty.”
The deck canted into a starboard roll as the ship came around with full rudder and turns for full speed.
Murphy could feel the vibrations from his feet as the main engines aft began to accelerate them through the water of the shallow bay, moving them away from the sonobuoys.
“Captain, steady course zero four zero, ship’s speed twenty knots,” the helmsman called from the ship control panel.
“Helm, all stop, mark speed six,” Murphy called.
“Downshift reactor coolant pumps to reduced frequency.”
Murphy looked over to Tarkowski at the geo plot.
“That’ll be the last sonobuoy that guy finds us with.” He hoped. Tarkowski said nothing.
“Captain, speed six knots, sir,” the helmsman said.
“All ahead one third, turns for six knots.”
“One third, turns for six, helm aye, sir.”
Murphy joined Tarkowski at the plotting table, seeing the plot of their drastic maneuver since the last splash. For several minutes nothing happened, the team in the control room silent as a funeral, waiting to see if their attempt to fool the aircraft above had succeeded. Murphy’s attention switched back and forth from the plot to the sonar display. Each minute without contact on the airplane was a plus.
“Seven minutes since the maneuver, Captain,” Tarkowski said.
“Sonar, Captain, any sign of the aircraft?”
“Conn, Sonar, we’re not getting him at all. No sign of him, sir.”
Murphy allowed a smile. Tarkowski’s frown stayed in place. Murphy turned to look at the display on Pos One.
“Colson, any speed or course changes by the surface force?”
“No, Captain. The previous intercept-solution is tracking.” As Murphy watched, a new dot in the dot stack on Colson’s screen veered off to the left, away from the neat rows of vertical dots that Colson had lined up by dialing in his solution course, speed and range.
“Sorry, sir, now I’ve got a possible target zig, Target Two.” Colson began lining up to find the new solution to the surface forces. Murphy chewed his lip, wondering if the skimmers had found out their new course and position.
“Conn, Sonar, the surface force is slowing down, turn-count dropping fast. Sounds like they’re doing a large-sector sonar search.”
“Captain, JOOD,” Colson said, “I’m getting a solution with the surface force at fifteen knots.”
Murphy nodded, pleased.
“Sonar, Conn,” Tarkowski said to his lip mike, “any detects on aircraft engines?”
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“Conn, Sonar, no.”
Only then did a smile break out on Tarkowski’s face.
“We ditched them. Skipper.”
“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting a faint detect on … helicopter rotors.”
“Helm, all stop!” Murphy said.
“XO, line up to hover.”
“Conn, Sonar, chopper’s getting closer.”
“Ship’s speed, a half knot and slowing, sir,” Tarkowski reported, “ready to hover.”
“Chief of the Watch, hover on the trim pump,” Murphy ordered, feeling the sweat on his forehead and under his arms.
“Ship is hovering. Captain,” Tarkowski reported.
“You think that’s an ASW chopper?”
“That’s exactly what I think it is. That son of a bitch is about to drop a dipping sonar set. If he does, when he does, we’d damned well better not be showing any speed through the water or his Doppler will snap us up.”
Murphy and his crew were well aware that helicopters were a lethal enemy to the submarine when they were equipped with a dipping sonar — the chopper could cover hundreds of square miles of ocean an hour with the dipper. It could dip and listen and move to another spot, dip and listen and go on until it located the submarine. All a good ASW chopper pilot needed was a sniff from a surface ship or an aircraft, just the slightest hint that a submarine was there, and after a few dips, get the target’s position down to within a hundred yards. Murphy silently prayed it wasn’t an ASW helicopter.
Pwiiiiiiing! The sound of a dipping sonar pulse coming through the hull, a whistling sound, very prolonged, perhaps four seconds.
“Conn, Sonar, that’s a dipping sonar, bearing one five five. Fairly distant …”
Tarkowski plotted the bearing to the dipper.
“Sir, if he sees us we’ve had it,” Tarkowski said.
“Range to the surface force?” Murphy, tight-lipped, directed at Colson.
“Thirty-five hundred yards, bearing two two zero, sir.”
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