“Confused?” Meade asked.
“Yeah … I don’t know, sir, there might be more than one engine making the noise down there, but it’s intermittent. I thought I heard two boats for a while, then only one.”
“SOSUS reported possible multiples,” Harrison reminded them. “But you’re sure about the ID, Curtis?”
“Wouldn’t swear to the specific boat, sir, but the sounds I heard were a Victor III all right.”
“I’m tagging it on the tactical plot,” Meade said. “Curtis, pass the data back to the Jeff over the Link-II.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the enlisted man replied.
Magruder was still unfamiliar with many of the more arcane aspects of sub-hunting, but he remembered that the Link-II was the on-board Navy Tactical Data System which kept track of the ships, aircraft, buoys, and submarines in a given area. It could be monitored by the ships of the battle group. The Senso and TACCO shared the responsibility of keeping the NTDS data current and sending it off to the ASW module in Jefferson’s CIC.
“What’s the nearest help we can tap, Spock?” Harrison asked.
Meade didn’t answer immediately. “Hmmm … Gridley’s closest,” he said at last.
Harrison glanced across the cockpit at Magruder. “Commander, get on the horn to the Jeff and ask ASW if we can get a little help from the Gridley. A LAMPS helo would be a big help tracking down that sucker.”
“And the frigate’s towed array’ll spot anything trying to break out to the southeast,” Meade added. “That’ll keep the bastards from getting any closer to the battle group.”
Magruder keyed in the radio and passed the request to the Jefferson.
“Viking Seven-oh-four, this is Guenevere,” Lieutenant Nelson’s voice came back. “Request acknowledged. Wait one.”
Seconds ticked by as the Viking continued its low-level flight barely two hundred feet above the ocean. Magruder heard another sonobuoy launch, and the S-3B banked left to take up a new heading.
“Viking Seven-oh-four thanks you, Guenevere!” the radio announced. “Switch to Channel Five. Call sign is Jericho, repeat Jericho.”
“Guenevere, Seven-oh-four thanks you,” Magruder said. He switched frequencies to establish contact with the Gridley. “Jericho, Jericho, this is Viking Seven-oh-four.”
“Seven-oh-four, Jericho. Copy you five by five. We’re readying you a helo now. Call sign will be Trumpet. ETA your position is thirty Mikes, repeat thirty Mikes.”
“Roger that, Jericho,” Tombstone responded. He was disappointed at the long delay, still reacting with the instincts of a fighter pilot to whom thirty seconds, not thirty minutes, was considered a long time. But Harrison didn’t look concerned. “We’ll be in touch. Seven-oh-four is clear.”
“Got something on DICASS two, sir,” Curtis announced. “Same signature … bearing from buoy is one-eight-one …”
“Range?” Meade demanded.
“Close … damned close …”
Magruder saw the MAD indicator register a contact. “MAD is active!” he said sharply. “MAD active!”
“Christ!” Harrison said. “We’re right on top of the guy!
“Got a line from buoy one now,” Curtis said.
“That’s our boy!” Meade said. “Triangulating now.”
“Course is one-seven-five degrees, speed ten, depth two-one-five,” Curtis reported.
“Range is eight hundred yards,” Meade added a second later. “Man, what a break!”
“We’ve hooked him,” Harrison said. “But we’ve still gotta nail him. I’ll circle in for an attack run.”
“Better hurry, Skipper,” Curtis said. “The pings’ve spooked him. I’m getting changes in speed, target aspect … sounds like he’s diving, too. Updating …”
“Dropping a fish,” Harrison announced. “Bay doors opening.”
Magruder felt rather than heard the grinding sound of the bomb bay opening to expose its lethal cargo. The S-3’s internal bay held four Mark 50 lightweight torpedoes, specifically designed for the Navy’s ASW aircraft. As he heard the sound of the release mechanism dropping one of the torpedoes Magruder could imagine it falling, its parachute deploying to slow the weapon’s fall. When it hit the water the torpedo would start its own hunt with an on-board sonar system.
“Torpedo running,” Meade announced. “I think we have acquisition.”
Magruder closed his eyes. The detached air of the Viking’s crew seemed unreal to him. Down below the aircraft the torpedo was closing on the Soviet submarine at a speed of over fifty knots, yet the matter-of-fact voices in the S-3 cabin might have been discussing sports scores for all the emotion they expressed. This was a new kind of war for Tombstone Magruder. A war he wasn’t sure he’d ever really understand.
0926 hours Zulu (0926 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“Help me out, John-Boy,” Coyote said, trying to keep the edge of tension out of his voice. “Come on, man, you’ve got to have something for me!”
Viper Squadron was spread out in a loose formation, angling north and west at fifteen thousand feet. The carrier was far behind them now, the Russian bombers somewhere ahead and down on the deck. It was clear now that they were heading for the coast of Iceland and not the Jefferson’s battle group, but that didn’t diminish the threat they posed. They could still double back.
And right now spotting the enemy was no easy task.
“This jamming’s just too damned thick, Coyote,” Nichols complained. “All I’m getting is fuzz.”
“Well, keep on it,” Coyote snapped.
He regretted his tone at once. He was letting things get to him again, losing control of his temper. That, he thought bitterly, was a sure way to get shot out of the sky. All other things being equal, it was the aviator who kept his cool and made the fewest mistakes who got home in one piece.
But today he couldn’t seem to keep a tight rein on his feelings. There was no one cause, no one solution, and that was the real problem. Too many emotions were distracting him.
There was fear, of course. No carrier pilot left the flight deck without knowing fear, no matter what sort of facade they presented to the outside world. In a combat situation, as in a night landing, the “pucker factor” was that much worse, but it was something an aviator learned to handle. Coyote had probably come closer to death than anyone in the squadron. He’d been shot down in the Sea of Japan, and had cradled his dead RIO in his arms as he awaited the SAR helo that never showed up. The North Koreans had threatened him with execution, and wounded him in the leg during an escape attempt. And there had been plenty of tight moments in the skies over the Indian Ocean as well.
Coyote could have dealt with the fear alone. But today there were other things on his mind. The confrontation with Magruder, for instance … and the close scrutiny he felt from CAG. The captain seemed determined to find fault with Viper Squadron and its commanding officer, and the extra pressure to perform was the last thing Coyote needed right now. And on top of that Stramaglia was flying as his wingman, and that worried him. The man was a brilliant instructor and a natural fighter jock, but he’d never heard a shot fired in anger in his entire Navy career. Two years behind a Pentagon desk had changed Matt Magruder. What had nearly a decade ashore done to Stramaglia?
Too many worries … too many distractions. Coyote knew what that could do to a pilot. He remembered his first time back up in a Tomcat after the North Korean incident, when the memory of being shot down and captured, the fear of losing Julie, had been overwhelming. The same kind of uncertainty gripped him now.
“Hey, dudes, I got something!” Malibu’s cheerful voice roused him from his reverie. “Bearing three-four-five multiple targets! Multiple targets!”
“Three-four-five …” he heard Nichols muttering over the ICS. “Where …? Yeah! I got ‘em, Skipper! Got ‘em! It’s faint with all this clutter, but I got bogies on the screen!”
Over the radio Coyote heard St
ramaglia’s growl. “Tighten up and go to afterburner. This is the real thing!”
“Range is one-for-oh, closing,” Nichols reported. “Angels one.”
“What’s the count?” Coyote asked as he shoved the throttles forward.
“Can’t tell … damn this shit!”
“Easy, John-Boy,” he said with a steady voice that belied his own inner turmoil. Everyone was on edge, not just him. This time there was none of the uncertainty they had felt the day of the Bear hunt, but knowing the score didn’t necessarily make things any easier. The Soviets were far more capable opponents than Libyans or Iraqis or North Koreans.
“Range one-twenty,” someone said on the radio.
“All right, weapons are free,” Stramaglia said. “Let’s get some use out of the Phoenix today.”
Coyote already had his selector switch set to launch the AIM-54 Phoenix. It was the Navy’s longest-ranged air-to-air missile, capable of reaching out and knocking down a target over a hundred nautical miles away. The Tomcat had been specifically designed to carry Phoenix, using the sophisticated AWG-9 radar/fire-control system. Each aircraft in Viper squadron carried four of the deadly missiles plus two Sidewinders for close-in attacks. Given the high success rate of the Phoenix — eighty-five-percent accuracy was the usual figure — the squadron stood a good chance of knocking out most, even all of the Soviet bombers they had detected earlier.
If only they could be sure of the enemy numbers now. The intense jamming could have covered a group breaking off from the main body.
“All right, boys, show ‘em what you’ve got!” Stramaglia said over the radio. “Fight’s on!” That was the traditional call to Top Gun students announcing the beginning of an exercise.
“Got a lock!” Nichols said. “Got a lock!”
Coyote’s finger tightened on the fire control, and a Phoenix leapt from the Tomcat’s wing with a roar of flame and thunder.
CHAPTER 15
Thursday, 12 June, 1997
0927 hours Zulu (0927 hours Zone)
Soviet Attack Submarine Komsomolet Thilsiskiy
Northeast of the Faeroe Islands
“Torpedo! Torpedo in the water!”
Emelyanov looked up at the call from the sonar operator. The atmosphere in the cramped, red-lit control room had been thick with tension ever since the passive towed sonar array had first detected the passing American aircraft above them. It hadn’t taken the enemy long to begin the hunt, using sonobuoys to send out pings of sound that had echoed through the sub’s steel hull. Nonetheless the captain had counted on more time before the hunters triangulated on the Komsomolets Thilsiskiy. Whoever the American was, he’d been incredibly lucky to spot the boat before Emelyanov’s evasive maneuvers had taken him out of harm’s way.
Too late now to dwell on the question of luck. “Take him to three hundred feet,” Emelyanov snapped. “Fire control, ready decoys.”
“Fifteen degrees down angle on planes.” That was Captain-Lieutenant Yuri Borisovich Shvachko, the submarine’s starpom. The Exec picked up a PA microphone and pressed the switch. “Dive! Dive!”
As the deck began to angle downward Emelyanov swallowed and looked across the control room toward the sonar repeater station. “Sonar, report.”
“Range eight hundred meters, closing,” the sailor at the repeater answered promptly. “Bearing one-one-six. Speed fifty knots”
The Americans had dropped the torpedo almost on top of the sub. Emelyanov didn’t waste time cursing. “Helm, come to course one-one-six. Flank speed!”
“Left full rudder. Increase to flank speed.” The Exec’s voice was cold, level, giving away no hint of emotion or concern. Emelyanov felt a flash of admiration for the way the young officer carried himself. Shvachko knew as well as anyone just how risky the maneuver his captain had just ordered really was. It was a testament to the way he had trained all of his crew, officers and seamen alike.
In theory turning into the enemy torpedo was the most effective defense they had. In the best-case scenario, the torp would hit the sub before it had time to arm. At least they might hope to get past it, buy a few more minutes of safety before it could turn around and use its sonar to reacquire and home in on the sub. But it was still incredibly risky.
“Decoys ready, Captain!” the fire-control officer announced.
“Range five hundred, closing,” the sonar operator added.
Emelyanov’s hands gripped the edge of the chart table of their own accord. He could feel the sweat trickling down his face. He had been through countless exercises in preparation for a moment like this, but the reality was nothing like the simulations or the practice runs against Soviet hunters.
“Four hundred … three-fifty … three hundred …”
“Depth now two-twenty-five meters,” the planesman reported.
There was an inversion layer somewhere around 250 meters beneath the surface, a layer of water where the temperature rose sharply. Thermal variations could distort or block sonar signals, providing a narrow pocket of safety where a sub could disappear from its pursuers for a time. If they could get there, they might be able to break contact.
If …
“Range two-fifty … two hundred …” The ping of the torpedo’s active sonar was growing steadily louder and faster as the range closed.
“Fire decoy!” Emelyanov ordered. “Helm, come to course one-two-five!” Silently, he uttered an old prayer his Ukrainian mother had taught him.
His eyes met Dobrotin’s. He wondered for an instant what the zampolit would think if he knew the captain was seeking solace in the religion still officially rejected by the Communist Party despite all the efforts of the liberal reformers.
Then the torpedo struck.
0929 hours Zulu (0929 hours Zone)
Viking 704
Northeast of the Faeroe Islands
Tombstone Magruder found it hard to believe that they were involved in a battle. There was none of the excitement, the adrenaline, the feeling of life and death hanging on every move they made that characterized the combats he was used to. The Viking crew was cool, professional, almost matter-of-fact as they waited to see the results of their first attack.
“Torpedo running,” Curtis reported. “Running … sub’s put out a decoy now … Hit!” His voice rose suddenly, cracking with sudden emotion for the first time. “That’s got to be a hit, by God!”
“Get on those sonars, Curtis,” Harrison ordered. “Confirm the kill.”
The S-3B started a long, banking turn, skimming low over the ocean. Magruder scanned the angry waters, looking for some outward sign of the battle. There was something unreal about a fight where you couldn’t even be sure you’d scored a hit. Even when a Phoenix knocked out an enemy plane at a hundred miles’ range, the bogie would disappear from the radar screen. But ASW warfare remained a matter of guesswork, surmise, assumption, from first contact to the very end of the engagement.
He cut his reverie short and pointed. “Down there, Commander,” he said.
Harrison grunted acknowledgment. A froth of bubbles was rising to the surface, along with a few unidentifiable bits of debris. “Not much junk,” the pilot said. “Curtis, what are you getting?”
“Decoy’s obscuring it,” Curtis replied. “But I don’t think the bastard’s out of action yet.”
Submarines customarily carried decoys that simulated a sub’s engine noises to confuse enemy sonars. The decoy dropped by the enemy Victor was still emitting its signal, which made it hard for Curtis to interpret the other noises his passive sonar receivers were picking up. But if he was right, the Russian was still down there, status unknown.
“Don’t worry, Commander,” Harrison said. He seemed to sense Magruder’s train of thought. He gave a wolfish grin. “Down there’s the deep blue sea. We’re the devil. I wouldn’t want to be in that Russkie’s shoes right now!”
0930 hours Zulu (0930 hours Zone)
Backfire 101, Strike Mission Buriivyy
Northwest of
the Faeroe Islands
Captain First Rank Porfiri Grigorevich Margelov pushed the throttles forward and listened to the roar of the twin Kuznetsov NK-144 turbofan engines with a tiny smile of satisfaction. The Tu-22M’s variable-geometry wings slid further back as the bomber gathered speed. He pulled back on the steering yoke, and the bomber angled upward, clawing for altitude.
“Missile launch! Missile launch!” the copilot shouted in warning. “American air-to-air missiles … AIM-54 type … Reading eight … ten … twelve!”
“Range?” Margelov asked sharply.
“One hundred fifty kilometers.”
Margelov frowned. The American Phoenix was a lethal weapon, capable of striking at targets far from their launch platforms. But it was a mixed blessing for the Americans to be able to open fire from such a long range. The bombers of Strike Mission Burlivyy — Tempestuous — would have plenty of time to react to the launch and get off their own missiles … and the Americans would face a significant time lag before they could engage at closer range with more conventional air-to-air missiles. The Phoenixes might cause heavy damage to the Tu-22Ms, but they weren’t going to stop the attack.
“Range to target?” he asked.
The weapons officer responded quickly. “Four-two-five kilometers, Comrade Captain.”
That put them within range of the American base in Iceland, but only barely. They could afford to wait a few minutes longer.
Margelov switched his radio to the strike mission tactical frequency. “Burlivyy Leader to all aircraft. Prepare for missile launch on my signal.”
The other bombers acknowledged the signal in rigid order as the bombers gained speed and altitude. The copilot called off the range of the approaching Phoenixes in a voice edged with worry. The reputation of the American missiles was enough to shake even the steadiest hand.
“Range six-zero kilometers, closing. Fourteen missiles.”
Over the radio Margelov heard a low-voiced exclamation. “Bojemoi! Picking up another missile launch from American aircraft!”
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